“All those other test candidates had no idea what they were doing, but you were great!”
“But everyone passed.”
“There’s a difference between just getting by and knowing what you’re doing. You knew what you were doing.” He then dismissed the many drivers’ education programs available to students, and reiterated his intention of teaching his son personally.
“Gee, thanks, Dad,” said Paul weakly. He’d had no complaints against New York recently, but here was one. These streets were patrolled by lunatics, bumper to bumper. A person should learn to drive in a sane place — like, oh, let’s say, Saskatoon. He could accept that this was a very un-Stevelike sentiment, because Steve always knew in advance that he would emerge unscathed driving through the minefield, the landslide and the washed-out bridge. But since no one had provided Paul with a copy of the script, it was fairly obvious that he would drive a quarter of a block, and then four fleets of taxis would appear from nowhere and grind him into a thin layer of dust over the bike lane. He sighed. Considering the insanity that was going on at school, the career of Paul Abrams, driver extraordinaire, was a needless complication.
And as the practices raged on and basketball fever took over Don Carey, Paul allowed himself to forget about driving and concentrated on Mike Otis. Maybe it was his being mentioned in the paper as one of Mike’s confidantes, or Daphne’s notice of him as a good friend of Mike’s, or possibly his and Sheldon’s general reputations as the ex-president’s main men, but Paul felt the need to get closer to Mike. His attempts were unsuccessful, as they had always been in the past. Concessions could be gained and promises extracted, but the man himself remained a complete mystery.
Still, despite his knowledge of Mike’s strange circumstances, his suspicious political career and rise to power, and his off-beat personality, Paul felt that Mike was someone special. In the words of Peter Eversleigh, Mike really was “the main dude.”
Finally, Paul knew he wanted to win on Thursday.
11
Laguna High laughed when it heard that Don Carey had put together a team and was going to dare to bring it over on Thursday. The Laguna Student Council had dispatched a letter to the students of Don’t Care High which included the passage:
“… We urge you to keep your team home, as cruelty to animals is distasteful to us. We have also heard that you place great faith in a person named Mike Otis, and we have obtained a picture of him. By the time this letter arrives, we may have stopped laughing….”
“It’s an outrage!” Sheldon howled in the cafeteria. “And that’s why we want everybody to be there! Everybody! We’ll show them how a real school sticks together behind its team and its true leader!” So, on the day of the big game, students did not even visit their lockers after class. Some headed for subways, some for private cars, and some started out on foot.
At exactly three forty-five, the principal of Laguna High became edgy as he watched the influx of Don Carey students swarm past his window, heading for the attractive, modern sports complex. He called together his staff in an emergency meeting, ordering them all to stay to act as security for the game.
“These are the monsters who levelled the science fair. How can we know how they’ll react when our team starts slaughtering them? So nobody goes home until they’re gone.”
The Laguna sports complex was the best high school facility in the city, and seated almost three thousand around the basketball court. This was ideal, as Sheldon, who had developed a great love for large numbers, estimated a twenty-four hundred-plus turnout. There were ninety Laguna teachers and about twice as many students. Don Carey’s staff representation consisted of Mr. Morrison and an incredibly nervous Coach Murphy.
Outnumbered thirteen to one, the Laguna students were a subdued lot, but so were the Don’t Care students, who seemed to be losing their sense of purpose in this foreign building because Mike had not yet arrived. Sheldon and Paul staked out the entrances, waiting for the president to put in an appearance. Come game time, Mike was not there.
Like its fans, the Don’t Care basketball team was having a crisis of motivation. Though its practice was evident, and Daphne Sylvester was easily the tallest girl on the court, the strong Laguna team was all over them. When it became obvious that the home team was in control, the Laguna fans allowed themselves to come alive, and Paul could see that the Don’t Care students, unused to participating in extracurricular activities, were becoming extremely uncomfortable. By the end of the first quarter, Laguna held a commanding 28–12 lead. And then Paul saw the shiny black behemoth nosing its way onto the sports complex parking lot.
“Shel! Shel, he’s here!”
Sheldon wasted no time. As Mike got out of his car, he took off for the announcer’s booth. Opening the door with a mighty kick, he grabbed the microphone from the startled announcer just as the second quarter was about to get under way. As Paul escorted Mike into the stands area, Sheldon’s voice rang through the complex.
“We would now like to welcome a dignitary in the audience: the once and future president and true leader of Don’t Care High Mike Otis!”
Pandemonium broke loose. There was a roar so loud that the Laguna staff wondered if the structure was strong enough to handle the vibrations. All the Don’t Care students were on their feet cheering, and Slim Kroy marched back and forth behind the players’ bench, blasting out his now-familiar Mike Otis Tuba Solo. The Don’t Care players just stared at Mike intently, for they were way behind in this game, and knew that Mike deserved far better than that.
Paul convinced Mike to wave, which he did in an offhand manner, and the crowd went crazy for five minutes.
Finally, order was restored, and the game resumed. But it was a new Don’t Care team that faced the Laguna champions. Everything was in perspective now, and everyone’s purpose was crystal clear: Mike wanted this game, and they would hand it to him or die trying.
Cheered, screamed, and oompahed on by their half-crazed fans, Daphne and her team fairly exploded. They were all over the court, lunging, weaving, dribbling and passing as though their lives depended on it. They made up six points before their shocked opponents had a chance to gather themselves together. Then the powerful Laguna offence struck back. But Don’t Care held fast, and the game became no-holds-barred, end-to-end action. The cheers were deafening as the Don’t Care team fought to close the gap between themselves and Laguna.
“Hey, wait a minute!” The referee called a special team foul on Don Carey because all the LaPaz triplets were wearing the number 3. The clock was stopped, and a lively debate ensued. Finally, when the foul appeared on the scoreboard, Mr. Morrison, overwhelmed with the excitement of the situation, shot off the bench like a jet-propelled projectile, and began hurling abuse at the referee. In the end, Laguna was awarded two shots, and Mr. Morrison was ejected from the building in disgrace. Shirley and Rose LaPaz were forced to change their numbers with white tape to 33 and 333 respectively, and the tuba told the general public what Don’t Care thought of the matter.
“Rip-off!” howled Sheldon in hysterics.
Paul said nothing. All his energy was concentrated on the drama that was unfolding on the court.
The battle raged on as Laguna fought to hold its lead under the staggering Don’t Care attack. By halftime, the lead had been cut down to seven points, but in the third quarter, Laguna came out with everything it had and widened the lead to ten. The fourth quarter was do or die for Don’t Care High. The sound was an uninterrupted roar from over twenty-four hundred throats as Arthur Morrison paced back and forth in the parking lot, biting his nails in anxiety.
Daphne and her team came out flying, and it became obvious that Don’t Care had the power edge this quarter as Laguna began to look tired. But the question remained: Would they have the time?
Slowly but surely, the lead dropped from ten to eight to six. With a minute and a half left, the score was 61–57, but then a Trudy Helfield interception brought Don’t Care High to within two.
Then Daphne Sylvester fouled, and one successful shot brought the Laguna lead to three, with forty-five seconds to play. As the seconds ticked away, Don’t Care thundered down the court, but when the ball passed through the hoop, bringing them within one, there were only twelve seconds remaining on the clock.
The Laguna team began to pass the ball around to kill time, but from nowhere leaped Daphne Sylvester, who smacked the ball away in midair, whereupon it passed through the hands of all three LaPazes, then to Trudy Helfleld and through the hoop a split second before the buzzer went off, ending the game. Final score: 63–62, Don Carey.
There was a moment of absolute dead silence as the buzzer rang. Suddenly, Mr. Morrison burst in from the parking lot door, ran out onto the court, looked up at the scoreboard and let fly with a joyous, inarticulate howl. Then Sheldon’s estimated twenty-four-hundred-plus crowd went absolutely berserk.
* * *
Sheldon and Paul both rode in the ambulance with Peter Eversleigh, who was being taken to the local emergency room, suffering from super-severe indigestion.
“Oh, dudes! Oh, dudes, dudes, dudes!” Peter kept groaning to Sheldon and Paul, who watched in concern. “This tournament which we have just witnessed was one of the most conceptual experiences of my life! I was so nervous that I didn’t even know I was doing it!”
“How much of that licorice did you eat?” asked Paul.
“My whole week’s supply of stick, dude. Sixty-seven long ones. Ohhh! My stomach feels so neg, I can hardly conceptualize.”
“Take it easy,” Sheldon counselled. “The doctor says you’ll be fine.”
“I want to relay my gratitude to you dudes for riding with me and leaving the celebration.” He shuddered. “I’ve got to give up stick. After today, this is a confection from which I will keep my distance.”
At the hospital, the doctors told Sheldon and Paul that Peter would not need his stomach pumped, and that it was just a massive case of indigestion due to indiscreet eating of licorice. He was to rest for an hour, and then they could take him home.
Sheldon relaxed in his chair in the waiting room. “Ah, Ambition, what could be more perfect than this day?”
“I can think of a lot of things,” said Paul wearily. “The win was beautiful, but it would be nice if the Laguna sports building was still standing.”
“Stop exaggerating. When the section of stands collapsed, I admit I was a little worried. But even the Laguna students cheered, because that part needed rebuilding anyway. And our people only tore down one basket.”
“And how about when Slim bopped their student council president on the head with his tuba?”
Sheldon shrugged. “It was an accident, and the guy was a creep to begin with. And don’t forget, Mr. Morrison made an official apology to their staff for any damages we might have caused.”
“Yes, but it would have been nice if he’d kept a straight face while he was doing it. I don’t think the principal was too impressed when he kept cracking up. I doubt if a giggled-out apology is enough for the stands, the basket, all the scuffs and scrapes we put on the floor when we mobbed the court, and all the bushes and flowers that got trampled when they threw us out of the building. Let’s face it, it was exactly like the science fair.”
“Only this time we won,” Sheldon added.
Paul smiled in spite of himself.
* * *
By the time Peter Eversleigh was safely home and Paul had returned to his apartment, he was late for dinner, which he knew would bring about a certain amount of cross-examination.
“Paul, where have you been? It’s so late.”
“Oh, sorry, Mom. Sheldon and I were with a sick friend.”
“Thank goodness!” his mother breathed. “I thought you were at that dreadful basketball game they’re talking about on the radio.”
Paul inhaled deeply. “Actually, that’s where Peter got sick. He kind of overdid it on licorice.”
“You mean you were at that awful game? Oh, Paul! On the radio they announced that the Don Carey students caused a riot!”
“It was a peaceful game,” Paul insisted. “We won it fair and square. Granted, a few things did get broken, but it was all unintentional, and it certainly wasn’t anything close to being a riot.”
All throughout dinner, Mrs. Abrams bewailed the “horrible school” Paul attended and the “bad crowd” he had fallen in with. The term “wanton destruction” came up a lot, too, and the name “Mike Otis” was spat out as though it were “Attila the Hun.”
Mr. Abrams offered up the “We’re not in the boonies anymore” explanation, but this time his wife shot it down handily.
“Mom, please don’t knock Mike so much. If there’s one thing that’s absolutely true here, it’s that none of this is Mike’s fault.” Paul pushed away his half-eaten dinner. “I’m really not very hungry. I’m going to my room.”
Sitting down on his bed, he frowned. Don’t Care High certainly seemed to be developing a reputation across the city if its exploits had managed to reach even his mother’s sedate radio station, where the most exciting news stories were fifty-percent-off sales on tomatoes and cantaloupes. Was the school’s reputation deserved? Well, certainly the damage reports were accurate. But nobody seemed to understand. The whole Otis revolution was so special, yet it was getting such a bad name.
Absently, he switched on his clock radio in time to hear the voice of Flash Flood announce, “Well, it’s seven-fifteen in the greatest city in the world, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at the traffic. Parking lots on all major routes. The weather — it looks like we’ll be able to put off that first frost for a few more weeks. And so the forecast is hot, and will remain hot for the duration of our brand-new garbage strike, giving way to severe blizzard activity once the smell dies down.”
“Okay, this next song goes out to Mike Otis and the students of Don’t Care High, who’ve been very busy lately, in case you haven’t heard. With a wrecked science fair already to their credit, today they battered the Laguna basketball team, and after that they battered Laguna. Damage estimates are right up there, and who can tell what’s next for the fearless fighters of the Sewerman’s School? I just hope they don’t come to Stereo 99, ’cause this building can hardly stand up on its own.”
Paul ignored the undertones and listened with an obvious swelling of pride. Mike Otis had put Don’t Care High on the map.
* * *
As always, Flash Flood was right. The weather remained hot, and the garbage piled up all over the city. It was a time of mellowing for Don’t Care High, and the students floated in the gentle euphoria brought on by their triumph over Laguna and their true leader, whom they revered regardless of whether or not he held the official title of president.
Staff spirits were improving as well. The administration was not too pleased with having to hand over reparations to Laguna and the Midtown Community Center, but Mr. Gamble preached a “Never cry over spilt milk” philosophy, and the incidents were thus smoothed over. Anticipating a long period of calm, the vice-principal looked ten years younger.
Even Mr. Willis seemed to be on the road to recovery. His sprained ankle was finally beginning to heal after complications had set in and, even though he still had problems, they were problems with photography. This was fair, he felt, since it was covered under his job description.
Peter Eversleigh swore off licorice for life, which he claimed was the best decision he had ever made, as he felt he was now more capable than ever of appreciating the conceptuality that blossomed all around him. He had taken to chewing gum, and spent a lot of his time with Rosalie Gladstone, the expert.
Wayne-o was developing a real rapport with Mr. Morrison, which was surprising the two of them. Wayne-o was so impressed with Mr. Morrison’s temper tantrum and subsequent ejection over the LaPaz foul at the basketball game that he took time out to congratulate him in homeroom. He even took a picture of him for photography class, which he entitled “Wayne-o’s Homeroom Teacher.”
The only casualty of the transformation of Don’t Care High was the man who had once held a near-monopoly on the crumbling halls of that institution. Feldstein had never quite recovered from the failure of his locker ban, had never quite believed his eyes when “The Sewer System” had grown and flourished in the midst of the strongest sanctions he had ever imposed. It was inconceivable that such an effort could possibly have taken place under such rigid locker restrictions. And yet the mysterious power of Mike Otis had won the day.
Many hours Feldstein sat in his chair, contemplating the demise of the locker business and racking his brain trying to penetrate the secret of the man who, to this day, still kept 205C from him. He watched his old enemies, the guys from The Combo, and even his archnemesis, Slim Kroy — all people he had ruthlessly forced out of the business — flourishing under Mike Otis. One thing was clear. Under the Otis regime, the economic climate of the school was not healthy for the locker game. There would be no more deals in his future, just a deserted stairwell, a stockpile of 263 accumulated favours, and eventually an empty chair.
Feldstein’s predicament was not immediately noticeable, however, as something far more distracting was in the works. Daphne Sylvester had started an all-out campaign to bring herself to the attention of Mike Otis. The divine Daphne was experimenting with every conceivable kind of fashion, hairstyle and makeup, which was having no effect on Mike, but was turning Paul and the rest of the male population of Don’t Care High prematurely grey. Paul’s chemistry grade was in a nosedive, which he felt was important, but not quite so important as the direct threat on his life Daphne’s new campaign posed. Powerful acids and bases would fly in all directions, and even poisonous gas would be ignored when Daphne selected a new miniskirt. Mike was completely unmoved.
Even Sheldon was impressed. “I’ll tell you, Ambition, I can accept that Mike is the way he is, and comes from a family so normal you could die. I can handle his car and his clothes. But when I see Daphne throwing herself at him, and him not even looking at her — that’s living proof that he’s not human!”
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