The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco

by Janice Repka

  The girl stopped and looked up at him. It was B.B. Tyson.

  Most people think clowns are disorganized. But in each circus there is one clown who is the boss clown. The boss clown is in charge of the other clowns. You can’t even pull a rubber chicken out of your pants unless the boss clown approves.

  If the Hardingtown Middle School was a circus, B.B. Tyson would be boss clown.

  “What do you want?” B.B. demanded when Phillip tapped her shoulder.

  Oh no, thought Phillip, wincing inside.

  “Are you the president of student council?” he asked.

  “Of course I am,” she said.

  Phillip felt like his stilt had hit deep mud. It seemed hopeless to ask B.B. He had to force the words out.

  “I want the student council to approve my petition,” he said.

  She looked at him suspiciously.

  “Is this like your stupid ‘hall monitor’ joke, Stanislaw?”

  “No,” he said, mustering his courage. “I want you to approve my petition.” He handed her the paper. “It’s to give kids an option to play a sport other than dodgeball in gym.”

  B.B. laughed.

  “Are all circus boys chickens like you?” she asked. A small group of kids gathered.

  “I’m not a chicken. I don’t think it’s fair they make us play dodgeball every gym class, that’s all,” said Phillip.

  “The reason you don’t like dodgeball is you’re afraid of the ball,” said B.B. “You’re a big, yellow chicken, Stanislaw.” B.B. made squawking sounds. She bent her elbows and put her hands under her arms, flapping them in mock chicken motions. Snickers rose around them and grew into full-pitched laughs. Phillip felt his ears turn into thermometers about to burst.

  “No,” he yelled. “That’s not why.”

  The laughter screeched to a halt. All eyes were on him. He completely forgot he was yelling at someone who could punch his lights out.

  “The reason I think dodgeball should be optional,” insisted Phillip, “is because I think it’s wrong to encourage bigger, stronger kids to hurt smaller, weaker kids.”

  “Dodgeball is a sport,” said B.B. “Kids get hurt playing all kinds of sports. Only sissies whine about it.”

  “Dodgeball’s not a sport. It’s target practice for bullies.”

  “Targets smargets. You’re complaining because you’re a wimp.”

  “I am not.”

  “Then prove it. You and I, one-on-one dodgeball. After school. In the gymnasium. If you win, I’ll make the student council approve your stupid petition.”

  “What happens if I lose?” he asked.

  “If you lose…” began B.B., scheming a horrible fate for Phillip. “If you lose, you have to change your name from Stanislaw to Coleslaw for the rest of the year.”

  “Why coleslaw?” asked a boy from the crowd.

  “Because nobody likes coleslaw,” B.B. said, then turned and tromped off.

  Once Phillip calmed down, he was shocked at what he had gotten into. He ran to grab his history book before heading to class. As soon as he got there, Phillip caught a boy whispering and pointing at him. He pretended it was just another school day, but he kept dropping things and couldn’t get any answers right. All he could think about was the one-on-one dodgeball game with B.B.

  Finally, he asked to go to the bathroom. He wandered down the deserted hallway, and walked past the door that said BOYS. Then he sneaked out the back door of the school and slunk to the courthouse.

  As soon as he got to the courthouse, he began to feel he had made a mistake. On the gym floor B.B. would have beaten him, but if he had faced off with her, at least he would have been doing something. That evening, a faint smell like rotting cabbage hung in the air.

  The next school day, it took all the nerve Phillip had just to get out of bed. He expected everyone at school to make fun of him. He expected there to be a banner hanging across the face of the Hardingtown Middle School that said:

  PHILLIP EDWARD COLESLAW IS A YELLOW-CHICKEN,

  ELEPHANT-POOP-SCOOPING CIRCUS BOY SISSY.

  There wasn’t.

  He expected kids to laugh when he walked by.

  They didn’t.

  A few kids called him Coleslaw, but most simply avoided him. Phillip poured himself into his work. The next few weeks passed without incident. Whenever he saw B.B., she glared triumphantly and her friends snickered. There was no way the student council would approve his petition now. There was no use even trying.

  Then it happened.

  “Stanislaw,” Coach called to Phillip as he made his way up the bleachers. “Three weeks is up. You’re on the floor today.”

  Panic filled him.

  B.B. dribbled a dodgeball and gave him a menacing wink. Coach mixed things up by picking captains and having them select their teammates. B.B. made sure she didn’t pick Phillip for her team. Phillip crept to his side of the gym with a couple of kids anxious to share their dodgeball strategies.

  “If you flex your stomach muscles right before the ball hits you, you’ll hardly feel it,” a student tipped him off.

  “Personally,” said another, “I’ll take a head shot anytime.” She knocked on her skull. “It’s one of the good things about being hardheaded.”

  “Stomach shot, head shot, they both have their advantages under the right conditions,” said a third, “but overall, I prefer the twisted-shoulder defense.”

  “What’s that?” asked Phillip.

  “When you see the ball coming,” the kid explained, “you twist your torso so that you take the hit in the square of your top arm. It’s the best place to absorb the impact.”

  Phillip considered his options. He didn’t want to climb the rope or hide behind other players. He was tired of running away. They are not custard pies, he reminded himself. They are balls. How much could a dodgeball hurt?

  Seeing one coming, he held still and waited for impact. It whizzed past, so close he could taste its stiff, inflatable rubber. The gym floor vibrated faintly as kids ran and dodged and fell against it. Screams, laughs, and grunts filled Phillip’s ears as balls found their marks. But he did not move.

  “This is for you, Coleslaw,” he heard B.B. yell. The burning ball sped at him like a meteor racing toward Earth, anxious to form a nasty crater.

  Defiantly, he closed his eyes.

  WHAP!!!! The ball pounded him on the side of the head at the temple. His glasses dug across his nose. They flew off and sailed across the room, crashing against a wall. Phillip held his burning face in his hands and struggled to keep from crying.

  Coach blew his whistle and stopped the game. Phillip located the pieces of his glasses and made his way to the bleachers, where he sat with the other defeated players.

  “You should have tried the twisted-shoulder defense,” one said.

  Phillip examined his glasses. In one hand, he held the scratched lenses; in the other, the bent metal frames. Without his glasses on, Phillip was lucky he could even find his way to the courthouse after school. Twice he went down the wrong street and had to turn around.

  “Dodgeball?” Aunt Veola asked when she saw his bruised nose. Phillip nodded and handed her the broken glasses.

  “Uncle Felix can fix them,” she said. “He worked at an optical shop. One time he forgets to lock the door and, wouldn’t you know, burglars took all the inventory.”

  When they got home, Uncle Felix used a pair of pliers to straighten out the twisted metal.

  “It’s all a matter of holding the frames while you twist back with the pliers,” Uncle Felix said.

  Crack! The left earpiece snapped off.

  “Or was it a matter of holding the pliers while you twist back with the frames?”

  Uncle Felix used a piece of red electrical tape to reattach the earpiece. He forced the plastic lenses back into the mangled frames and carefully set the glasses on Phillip’s nose.

  Plop! The right lens fell out.

  Uncle Felix put the right lens back in and u
sed the electrical tape to secure it to the metal of the frame. When he placed them back on Phillip’s nose, the only place to see through was a peephole in the middle.

  “You’ve got more red tape here than city hall,” said the lady at the optical shop as she unwrapped Uncle Felix’s handiwork to evaluate the damage. “Better look for a new pair of frames. These are beyond repair. We’ll have to replace the lenses, too.”

  When she gave them a price for the new glasses, Aunt Veola exclaimed, “Two hundred and forty-nine dollars! You can buy a lawn mower for two hundred and forty-nine dollars.”

  “True,” said the optical lady, “but he won’t be able to see a blackboard with a lawn mower on his nose.” Aunt Veola reached for her checkbook.

  “Do I have to pay it all up front?” she asked.

  “I’ll need at least fifty dollars down,” said the lady.

  Phillip squirmed. He wished he could tell Aunt Veola not to bother, that he could do without his glasses. The optical lady began filling out a form.

  “I’ll find a way to pay you back,” Phillip told Aunt Veola. “I promise I will.” It didn’t seem fair that Aunt Veola had to pay for his new glasses because B.B. Tyson broke his old pair. On purpose.

  The optical lady finished the paperwork and said, “It will take three or four weeks to get them.”

  Phillip was as disappointed as a ticket holder to a canceled show. He picked up the broken glasses and began rewrapping them.

  The next day at school, he tried to hunch slightly and walk with his head toward the wall. But it was hopeless.

  “Nice look, Coleslaw,” teased a boy.

  “You should have tried the back block,” said a girl.

  B.B. and Carmen spotted him going into science class. “You look like a clown,” said Carmen. “Why don’t you go back to the circus?”

  “Beat it,” B.B. told Carmen. “I want to talk to him alone.” As Carmen slithered off, Phillip felt a shudder run through him.

  “It’s about your glasses, Coleslaw. I—”

  “What’s going on?” asked Coach, who was suddenly behind them.

  “Nothing, Daddy,” said B.B.

  “Then you’d better get to class,” he said.

  In science class, Phillip kept hearing B.B.’s friend telling him to go back to the circus. Miss Castapio was talking about the Periodic Table of Elements, but Phillip wasn’t paying attention. Lulled by her hypnotic voice, his mind wandered back to his circus days.

  “Mr. Stanislaw,” called a woman’s voice. “I’m talking to you, Mr. Stanislaw.” It was Miss Castapio.

  Phillip shook his head to bring himself back. The kids laughed.

  “Didn’t you hear the message on the loudspeaker?” she said. “You’re wanted in the vice-principal’s office.”

  It’s difficult for a human cannonball to keep his cool while waiting to get blasted over a crowd of spectators. The temperature is hotter when you’re crammed inside a circus cannon.

  The waiting area outside Hardingtown Middle School’s vice-principal’s office had the reverse problem—it was too cold. The students said that the vice-principal, Mr. Race, kept it that way on purpose because it had the effect of slowing down a student’s body. Many an angry hothead had been reduced to a shivering pile of goose bumps by the time it was his or her turn to go in. Legend had it that a particularly troublesome student had to wait so long he got frostbite and transferred to another school district. Phillip cupped his hands and blew into them.

  The walls outside the vice-principal’s office were concrete block painted an odd yellow, like brown mustard. On one wall, a poster said: THE PRINCIPAL IS YOUR PAL. Phillip sat on his hands to keep them warm. As the dismissal bell rang, he thought about the sweatshirt that was hanging in his locker. After twenty minutes passed, the vice-principal’s secretary appeared.

  “You can go wait in his office,” she said. “He’ll be right in.”

  The vice-principal’s office was as clean as a knife-thrower’s blade. Phillip sat in one of the stiff vinyl chairs in front of the metal desk. On the desk was an IN box and an OUT box, both empty. On his teachers’ desks, Phillip had noticed brightly colored knickknacks. There was nothing bright on the vice-principal’s desk. It was as if vibrant colors were banned from his office, replaced by creams and grays and browns, colors that wouldn’t cause a commotion. That’s what the secretary had told Phillip that the vice-principal wanted to see him about—causing a commotion.

  Mr. Race blew by him and plopped into his swiveling seat. The musky, aftershave-scented breeze made the flesh stand up on the back of Phillip’s neck. Mr. Race wore shiny braces on his not quite perfect teeth. His medium brown hair was parted down the middle with such accuracy that Phillip imagined there were exactly the same number of hairs on each side of his head. Mr. Race was always in a hurry. His name suited him.

  Mr. Race opened a thin folder that was on his desk.

  “Phillip Edward Stanislaw. Grade six,” he read.

  While Mr. Race read from his school file, Phillip stared at the collection of antique handcuffs in the display case behind the desk. There was also a small dodgeball trophy. The gold plate on it said: SECOND PLACE.

  A knock rattled the door.

  “She’s here,” said his secretary, pushing the door open.

  Phillip turned and saw Aunt Veola in her courthouse-guard uniform. She removed a fresh handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her hand with it.

  “Thank you for coming, Veola,” said Mr. Race as they shook hands. Aunt Veola discreetly wiped her hand again and sat next to Phillip.

  “We are both busy people, Veola. I hope you don’t mind if I get straight to it.”

  “No need for dawdling,” she agreed.

  “We are suspending your nephew,” Mr. Race said. “We have a rule against circulating petitions without the approval of student council. He violated that rule.” Aunt Veola looked at Phillip, who sat wide-eyed and speechless.

  “I didn’t know,” Phillip said.

  Mr. Race opened a desk drawer and removed a petition form. He flipped it over and read out loud, “‘All petitions must be approved by student council before they may be circulated.’”

  “Now, Veola,” continued Mr. Race. “You’re a law-abiding citizen, so you understand that we can’t allow students to break our rules without punishment.”

  “They have to obey the rules,” Aunt Veola agreed. “But suspension—even for a short time—isn’t that a bit harsh?”

  “A four-day out-of-school suspension will give the boy a chance to think about his transgression.”

  “You’re not going extra hard on him because of what happened between you and my sister when you were in school together?”

  “Of course not,” insisted Mr. Race.

  “Because it wouldn’t be right to punish him just because he’s Matilda’s son.”

  Phillip wondered what they were talking about.

  Mr. Race smiled, and a glint of light reflected off his braces. “I might take a different approach if this were Phillip’s first offense,” he continued, “but there have been others.”

  “Others?” asked Aunt Veola.

  “He’s left school early without permission on two occasions. The first time was an early morning; he was spotted in the hallway but failed to report to homeroom. The second time, he asked to go to the bathroom and never returned to class. Of course there are also complaints about his bad dodgeball attitude. I’m sure you understand how important school spirit is.”

  “He’s had a hard time adjusting,” Aunt Veola said weakly.

  “Attacking dodgeball is not my idea of trying to adjust.” Mr. Race looked over at Phillip. “If you really want to adjust, start with your attitude.”

  “What’s the difference?” Phillip replied. “I’ll never fit in.”

  They did not discuss the point further. Phillip collected his schoolbooks and loaded them into Aunt Veola’s car. He held his feelings in for as long as he could. By the time they w
ere driving away from the school, he was filled to the brim and began to overflow.

  “I’m no good at anything,” he said. “When I was with the circus, I wasn’t brave enough to walk on hot coals, patient enough to train a bear to dance, or graceful enough to stand on a horse. I thought if I lived like a regular kid, I would find a place where I belong. But things are no better here.”

  Phillip sighed. “I’m not strong enough to be an athlete. I’m not rich enough to be a snob. Even the nerds don’t want me because I’m not nerdy enough.”

  “It takes all types in this world,” said Aunt Veola. “Not everyone is an athlete or a snob or a nerd. Just look at your father, and he’s a very successful clown.”

  “But clowning comes easy to him. He’s always been a clown.”

  “Is that what you think?” Aunt Veola pulled over to the side of the road, waited for traffic, and made a U-turn. Phillip didn’t care. Nothing seemed to matter.

  The sedan didn’t stop until the scenery had turned to countryside. They pulled into the parking lot of a run-down country diner. Phillip followed Aunt Veola to a pickup window. She ordered two hot chocolates with extra whipped cream and put her change in a tin box on the counter for donations to the Dodgeball Museum.

  Aunt Veola wiped her cup with a paper napkin. They took the cups to a large pond and watched a family of ducks diving for dinner. October leaves were blowing in swirling patterns. Aunt Veola spread a napkin on a wooden bench, where they sipped their rich, soothing drinks.

  “I used to fish here with your mother when we were girls. I would catch them. She would eat them.”

  Phillip tried to imagine Aunt Veola as a young girl with a fishing rod in her hand and a can of disinfectant in her pocket to clean the hook between worms.

  “After your mother joined the circus,” she said, “I stopped fishing. I sold my rod and reel the day of her wedding. I knew she would never move back after she became one of the Stupendous Stanislaws.”

  Phillip listened with interest. He sipped his hot chocolate slowly, letting it clear a warm path down his throat.

  “You don’t know much about your father’s family history. Do you?” she asked.