by Susan Shreve
“You don’t have to do everything Tommy says, you know,” Andrew said.
“Of course I don’t have to.” Joshua boxed the locker door with his fist. “But we all do anyway.”
He and Andrew had been friends nearly forever, ever since playgroup when they were two years old. And though Joshua had no memories of being two except one of eating marsh-mallows under the kitchen table, he felt as if he remembered Andrew always. They were not alike. Andrew studied all the time and played word games with his parents at dinner and read the newspaper every morning before he went to school, even the editorial page. Sometimes Joshua didn’t know why they were still friends, since he and Andrew seemed so different. Some days Andrew even seemed grown up. But the fact was, they were best friends. When Joshua had flunked third grade, Andrew was the only person in the whole fourth grade who was willing to eat with him in the lunchroom. And that counted for everything.
“So you’re not going to play?” Joshua asked Andrew.
“Nope,” Andrew said. “I’m working in the library on a report on the Sioux so I can go to the movies tonight.”
“Nerd,” Joshua teased, and Andrew smiled.
“That was my best friend, Andrew Porter,” Joshua said, leading Sean to the baseball field where Tommy Wilhelm and Billy Nickel were warming up. “He thinks it’s a dumb idea to play baseball in the winter.”
“So why are we doing it?” Sean asked, taking giant steps to keep up with Joshua as they walked across the field.
Because Andrew isn’t captain of the world, Joshua thought. Tommy Wilhelm is. Joshua shrugged. He put his baseball cap on top of his wool cap, with the visor facing backward.
“I don’t think Tommy Wilhelm likes me,” Sean said, struggling to keep up.
“Tommy doesn’t like a lot of guys,” Joshua said.
“Does he like you?”
“We aren’t best friends,” Joshua said.
Tommy and Billy and a few other boys were standing at the equipment shed. Bats and baseball gloves were scattered on the ground.
“So you finally made it,” Tommy said. “What were you doing? Putting on makeup or something?”
Billy laughed and blew a huge bubble with his gum. It exploded with a pop.
Joshua sighed and looked for a glove that might fit. He found one for Sean, too. “Here, Sean, try this.”
“Teams are chosen except for you two guys,” Tommy said. “And I choose the red-headed ace. What’s your name again?”
“Sean.” His voice was like a whisper.
“Yeah, right,” Tommy said, sneering. “Shaaaawn.” Tommy tossed Sean a baseball. “Here you go, Ace. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The glove Sean had on was about four sizes too big, and when he tried to catch the ball Tommy lobbed, the glove slid off his hand.
Tommy rolled his eyes and took his position as catcher behind home plate. Sean walked slowly to the pitcher’s mound. He pounded his right hand into the glove several times.
Joshua sat down on the bench and immediately began to think of all the places he would rather be than on this bench watching the red-headed midget from New Jersey who as far as Joshua could tell was just about to have the most humiliating day of his life. Billy strolled over and plunked down on the bench next to Joshua.
“So your girlfriend is a pretty great pitcher,” Billy said, and grinned. He blew a bubble the size of a soccer ball. Joshua poked it with his finger, and the bubble collapsed with a splat across Billy’s face and hair.
“Hey!” Billy yelled. “What’d you do that for?”
“Gee,” Joshua said innocently, “sorry. I guess I’m just clumsy.”
“You will be sorry,” Billy snarled, untangling strings of gum from his face and hair.
Tommy yelled for Billy to hurry up and start the game. “Okay, okay,” Billy said. “Jeez, what’s the rush?” Billy went over to find a bat, found three, took several slow swings with each, selected one, slung it over his shoulder, and confidently strolled to home plate. He dug his toes into the dirt and took a few more swings. He smiled at Tommy.
“Ready,” he said.
“Billy, what’s all the pink crud in your hair?”
“Nothing,” Billy said. “Let’s play ball.”
Tommy yelled out to Sean. “Okay, Ace!”
Tommy turned to Billy. “This is going to be a comedy show,” he said, and they both laughed.
SEAN FINISHED his warmups. He waved to Tommy that he was ready. Turning to one side and bending slightly at the knees, just as a professional pitcher would do, he rolled into his windup. The ball sailed from his hand, hit the ground halfway to home plate, and rolled to a stop just in front of Billy’s feet.
“Ball one,” Tommy said.
Sean made a second pitch. This time the ball skipped behind Billy, out of the backstop, and down the grassy incline toward the basketball courts.
“Ball two!”
“Ball three!”
Billy yawned and pretended to fall asleep at the plate. He made exaggerated snoring sounds.
“Wake up, Billy!” Tommy yelled. “Here comes ball four!”
Sean coiled into his final windup. He threw the ball hard, but instead of crossing the plate the ball plopped harmlessly on Billy’s shoulder.
Billy howled as if he had been hit by a Nolan Ryan fastball. He fell onto the ground, rolled back and forth, and grabbed his shoulder.
“Ball four! Take your base!”
Billy struggled to his feet, limped partway to first base, then broke into a skip.
“Hey, Ace,” Billy yelled, “maybe you should try out for ballet instead of baseball. Maybe you’re better with your feet than your hands!”
It was Joshua’s turn to bat. Ordinarily Joshua loved to hit. He loved the feel of a bat in his hands and the hard crack of the ball as it made contact. But this time the bat felt awful. It was as heavy as lead.
Joshua stepped up to the plate. Sean curled into a windup and pitched.
“Ball one!”
“Ball two!” Billy Nickel stole second base. The left fielder sat down.
“Ball three!” The shortstop threw his glove in the air. Billy Nickel stole third base.
“Jeez!” Tommy yelled. “You must have the New Jersey record for balls!” Sean stared at the ground. He pounded his fist into his glove, adjusted his shoulders, and rubbed the ball on his pants.
“That’s right, Ace,” Billy called out, “you just need to settle down a bit.”
Joshua cocked the bat on his shoulder. Please, he thought, just one strike.
The ball sailed toward the plate. For a split second it looked to Joshua as if it might be a strike. Joshua leaned into his swing. It was too late. The ball just seemed to die. It bounced about a foot in front of home plate and rolled lazily toward the backstop.
Tommy grinned meanly.
“Ball four!”
Right then Joshua would have liked to bop Tommy on the head with his bat so that Tommy would fall down unconscious for six weeks. But to the horror of Joshua T. Bates, the red-headed midget did the worst possible thing any humiliated boy could do. He burst into tears, threw down his glove, and walked off the field.
“You’re not quitting, are you, Ace?” Tommy called out to him. “Just when you were getting warmed up?”
Everyone on the bench burst out laughing. Billy Nickel danced to home plate. Then he and Tommy and a few other boys jogged after Sean, who began walking faster and faster. Tommy grabbed Sean from behind.
Laughing and shouting, a circle of boys formed around Sean, who was practically sobbing. Tommy pushed Sean, and he stumbled backward. Then another boy pushed Sean, who stumbled forward. Then he was pushed back again.
“Look at this!” Tommy shouted. “It’s a human pinball machine!”
Joshua felt sick.
And then Sean ran. He broke free from the circle of boys and ran. Joshua watched and thought maybe he should run after Sean and explain that he understood about humiliation.
&
nbsp; But he didn’t.
ANDREW WAS in the library when Joshua went upstairs to put his coat away in his locker. Joshua went in, sat down, and put his head on the table next to his best friend.
“Guess what?” he said.
“What?” Andrew asked.
“The new boy can’t pitch.”
Andrew shrugged. “It’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“Nope,” Joshua said. “I just feel sort of awful for him. Even though he is a nerd.”
“I suppose any day now the NOs are going after him,” Andrew said.
“They already have,” Joshua said. “And I’m probably next.”
“Tommy Wilhelm wouldn’t go after you,” Andrew said. “And anyway, you already beat him up once. He wouldn’t want to fight with you again.”
“Maybe not,” Joshua said, “but he didn’t have so many friends last time.” Joshua let out a deep sigh. “I can’t explain it,” he said. “It’s just different now, not like it was in third grade.”
Andrew nodded. “I know what you mean.”
Joshua collected his books and went back to homeroom, where Sean O’Malley was sitting with his Yankees jacket on.
“Joshua,” Mrs. Wooden said when he came into the classroom.
He walked over to her desk.
“I hope you are taking good care of Sean today.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I am. I will.”
chapter three
AFTER LUNCH, Sean O’Malley asked Joshua if he could come over to Joshua’s house after school.
“I guess,” Joshua said, trying to think of an excuse, “although maybe I have a piano lesson. Meet me at the end of school and I’ll tell you then.”
“Great,” Sean said. “I was afraid you might not like me after, you know, what happened.”
“Oh, that was okay. Not everyone’s a great pitcher.”
“I don’t mean about pitching. I mean the other.”
“Yeah,” Joshua began to say, but he didn’t finish. The fact was, he felt sorry for Sean O’Malley, but he didn’t approve of him crying at the baseball game.
“So see you later,” Sean said. “We’ll meet out front at three. Okay?”
“Okay,” Joshua said.
The minute the bell rang for the end of school, and before Sean O’Malley probably had time to put on his Yankees jacket, Joshua bolted. He didn’t even stop at his locker to get his books for math and language arts or even his coat. He flew down the front steps of Mirch, past a line of fifth-grade girls who screeched “Hunk!” when he raced by, down Thirty-fourth Street as fast as he could run to Lowell, and home. When he got there, Amanda was in the kitchen eating six chocolate chip cookies and a Kudos.
“Someone called,” she said.
He took a cookie from her plate.
“Who?”
“Sean O’Malley. He said he’d call back. That he was supposed to come over to play today and you must have forgotten.”
“You bet. That’s just what I did. Forget.” He opened the refrigerator door and took out a carton of milk. “So what’d you tell him?”
“To come on over. What else?”
“Creep.” He took six, seven, eight cookies out of the jar.
The telephone rang, and Amanda went to answer it.
“If that’s him,” Joshua said, “tell him I’m not here.”
Amanda had her hand on the receiver.
“But you are here, Josh,” Amanda said slyly. “I see you standing right beside me eating a chocolate chip cookie, so you must be here.”
Amanda picked up the receiver.
“Please, Amanda,” Joshua begged. “This is not funny.”
“Hello?”
Joshua froze. His mouth formed a silent “please.”
“Joshua?” Amanda pretended to think. “Well, let me see.” Amanda looked right at Joshua. “Joshua!” she called out sweetly. “Are you here?”
Joshua was frantically waving his hands no.
“Yes,” Amanda said, “he’s right here. Hold on a second.”
Amanda was grinning like a witch. The receiver dangled from her right hand. “Surprise, Joshua. It’s for you.”
Joshua didn’t remember what he said just then, but whatever it was, it wiped the smile right off Amanda’s face.
“I’m telling!” Amanda screamed. “I’m telling Mom and Dad what you said, and probably you’ll be grounded for life!”
Joshua ran down the hallway, barreled down the basement stairs, dove into the bathroom, and slammed the door. He heard footsteps and then Amanda’s prissy voice outside the bathroom door.
“You’re in big trouble now, Joshua T. Bates.”
“Leave me alone, Amanda,” Joshua moaned. “I’m sick. I’m throwing up.” He growled deeply in his throat, coughed and spit a bit, then flushed the toilet.
“See. I told you I was sick.”
“Are not.”
“Am too!”
Amanda switched to her I’m-so-logical voice. “If you’re so sick, why did you invite a friend over?”
“I didn’t invite him over. And he’s not my friend. He’s a nerd and he’s stuck to me.”
“Well, here’s a flash, Joshua. This nerd friend of yours is on his way over, and he should be here any minute.”
Joshua sat down on the edge of the tub and waited until he thought Amanda had finally lost interest in bothering him, which knowing Amanda might take all night and most of the next day. He thought he finally heard her footsteps down the hall, listened at the door, opened it, and quietly sneaked up the stairs and into his bedroom.
He closed the door behind him, climbed up into his bunk bed, and slipped the covers over his head.
And that is exactly where he was, lying nose to nose with Egypt, his stuffed crocodile, burning with shame at his terrible behavior, when he heard the soft voice of his mother talking to Georgianna on her way upstairs.
“Amanda tells me you’re ill,” his mother said. “Actually she tells me you are pretending to be ill.” His mother was standing at the door to his room, but he didn’t look down from his bunk.
“I am ill,” Joshua said. “Very.”
She walked across his room, climbed the ladder of his bunk bed, and sat down at the foot of the bed so he could just see her over the head of his crocodile.
He didn’t want any more trouble than he’d already had, and he knew that if Sean O’Malley appeared at their front door he was doomed. His mother would ask Sean in, take him to the kitchen for chocolate chip cookies and hot cocoa, set him up in the television room in front of the TV or take him to the old playroom in the basement, where there was a Ping-Pong table, or invite him to come to the study to read some books and stay for dinner, spend the night, move in. That’s the kind of mother she was, which was swell most of the time. But not today.
“What’s really the matter?” she asked, rubbing his arm.
“I am not physically sick, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then what?”
“I’m sick with worry,” he admitted.
“That’s what I thought. Are you having trouble with math?”
“I got a D on a quiz today.” His mother frowned. Joshua added quickly, “But that’s not the real trouble. The real trouble is a new boy came to Mirch today from New Jersey, and he’s stuck to me.”
“But that’s very nice. It means he likes you, darling.”
“Believe me, it’s not very nice at all. It’s a disaster. It could mean the end of my life in fifth grade.”
“No, Joshua. You are stronger than that. You proved that when you flunked third grade.”
“You don’t understand, Mom,” Joshua said.
Joshua would have liked to have told his mother about Tommy Wilhelm and the NOs and about what it meant to be a nerd or even a friend of a nerd. But she wouldn’t understand that because she was a mother, and besides, if she heard about the NOs she’d call Mrs. Wooden and Andrew Porter’s mother and probably Tommy Wilhelm’s mother and certainly
the principal. Then there’d be real trouble.
He was just about to tell her why the new boy was ridiculed when the doorbell rang.
“Joshy,” Amanda called up in her singsong voice, “someone’s here to see you.”
“Brother,” Joshua said, and covered his face with Egypt. “Please tell him I’m sick.”
His mother climbed down the ladder.
“And please drown Amanda in the sink.”
IN LESS THAN a minute, in less time than it would have taken Joshua to fly under his covers, there was the red-haired midget standing in the doorway to his room, still clutching the Mickey Mouse lunchbox.
“Hi,” he said in a very small voice. “I guess you forgot me.”
“I’m sort of sick,” Joshua said.
“I know. Your sister told me. So I thought we could just play quietly on your bed.” He started up the ladder. “When I was little, that’s what my mother told me to do if I was sick. Just play quietly on my bed.”
Sean sat down at the end of Joshua’s bed, took off his Yankees jacket, opened his book bag, and took out a small box.
“Do you like cards or games?” he asked. “I’ve got both.”
Joshua felt defeated. “Games, I guess.”
AT FIVE Mrs. Bates came in with Georgianna. “What time does your family expect you home?” she asked Sean.
“They don’t,” Sean said. “It’s only my father anyway, and he works all the time. My mother lives in California now. She says she likes the climate better.” He scrambled down the ladder. “I could have dinner with you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Mrs. Bates laughed.
“Actually I wasn’t wondering,” she said. “But you’re welcome to have dinner just tonight. Generally on school nights no one comes to dinner, but since you’re new in Washington, we’ll make an exception.”
“I’m a little sick, remember?” Joshua said, but he knew he had lost.
“I can help,” Sean said. “I’ll set the table if you want. Or help stir something.” And he was off down the stairs to the kitchen.