“Dave,” Jenny said, looking nervous. “Can’t you just forget it?”
“Forget it?” I echoed. “Are you serious? Would you have asked that question of John Maynard Keynes, the father of modern macroeconomics? Or professional BMX bike racer Aaron Weinstein? What if they’d just forgotten it? Where would we be today?”
“Oh, geez,” Jenny said, rolling her eyes. “Here we go.”
That’s when I heard Cody’s big dumb laugh floating toward us from nearby the “You Can Achieve Anything If You Try!” posters that hung over the trash bins. He and Rick Cardoza and Austin McFeeley were pointing in my direction.
“Look,” Cody shouted, his mouth full of cheese and processed meat. “I never noticed until today, but Shrimp Newburg’s sister’s got even less of a rack than he does!”
This was uttered at a decibel level so loud, everyone in the entire cafeteria had to have heard it.
I didn’t even glance at Jenny. I think she reached out to try to stop me—she usually does—but it was too late. Who cares if Cody Caputo is the biggest kid in our class and I’m the smallest? John Maynard Keynes missed a great deal of school as a young man in the late nineteenth century due to poor health, but did that stop him from saving the British economy during World War I by amassing scarce currencies, such as pesetas, then selling them off at just the right time, in order to break the market? It did not.
Of course, Cody Caputo was not alive during World War I and so did not stuff John Maynard Keynes headfirst into a trash bin for his efforts.
“Looks like someone didn’t want to finish their Shrimp Newburg,” Cody cackled with his friends as they fled the scene of the crime. At least I think that’s what he said. It was hard to hear with all the chunks of leftover meat pizza in my ears.
“I don’t know who wouldn’t want to finish such creamy, delicious Shrimp Newburg,” Rick Cardoza said, cracking himself up.
I wasn’t able to extract myself from the trash bin until they were gone. Not because I’m the slightest bit afraid of them, of course, but because the bin was so slippery inside, what with all the ice cream sandwich wrappers.
When I finally emerged, Jenny was there, holding some paper towels for me.
“I told you it was better just to forget it,” she said. Fortunately, by that time, all of her friends from the gymnastics team were gone as well.
“I can’t just forget it,” I said. “Cody’s gone too far now that he’s brought you into it. He’s a complete sociopath, you know.” When Jenny looked a little blank—I sometimes wonder how we can even be related, let alone have spent nine months side by side in the same womb—I explained, “Someone lacking in a sense of moral responsibility or social conscience. When bullies like him are allowed to flourish in our society, they tend ultimately to be elected to public office or made into celebrities on cable news shows. I can’t allow that to happen with Cody.”
“You have sausage in your hair,” Jenny said, handing me more paper towels.
“They won’t get away with this, Jen,” I assured her. “It’s one thing to call me Shrimp Newburg—which doesn’t even make sense, since I’m well within the national height range for our age group. But no one makes fun of your lack of development and gets away with it.”
Jen sighed. “Please don’t say you’re going to go tell Vice-Principal Bushey about this. I’m not going to be able to rescue you if they retaliate by taping you up in the boys’ toilets again after school, because I’ll be at the Kirkland Ranch tumbling invitational.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. I held up the sign I’d pulled off her back, which I’d kept from getting stained by sealing it in the clear plastic sheath I wear every day in the right front pocket of my shirt. While this is derisively referred to by some as a “pocket protector,” it really does come in handy for protecting things, such as forensic evidence. “I have proof this time.”
Jenny just shook her head. “It’s your funeral,” she said.
It was while waiting for my meeting with Dr. Bushey that I saw him for the first time. At first I thought he was at Highland Estates for a job interview, maybe as the new custodian.
Except that most grown men don’t bring their mom to a job interview.
“Highland Estates is a Blue Ribbon Honors School, Mrs. Garcia,” Dr. Bushey was saying to the lady who was standing next to the kid. She was only half her kid’s size but looked exactly like him, minus the tiny mustache he had growing on his upper lip. “Only the best schools in the country achieve that kind of recognition from the U.S. Department of Education.”
“Thank you, Dr. Bushey,” Mrs. Garcia said gratefully. “I’m sure Amado will be much happier here than he was at his last school.”
Amado Garcia? That was the name of this kid, who was so large he made Cody Caputo look like one of Jenny’s Polly Pocket dolls? Poor guy. Amado mio means “my beloved” in Spanish, a fact I happen to know because I am in all AP classes, including Accelerated Languages.
Amado didn’t look as if he much appreciated his mother naming him the Spanish equivalent of my beloved, much less moving him to a Blue Ribbon Honors School like Highland Estates. He was scowling . . . at his mom, at Dr. Bushey, at Dr. Bushey’s administrative assistant, Miss Rivera, who is really very attractive for someone of her advanced years, and finally at me.
It was like being scowled at by a walking bulldozer.
Except that this bulldozer was wearing an official Aaron Weinstein Yeti Shok Jok BMX racing shirt. Just like the one I had back in my closet at home.
Only Amado’s had to be size triple XL, which makes it highly unlikely his mom, like mine, bought it in the children’s department at JCPenney.
“And I certainly hope you’ll try out for our basketball team, Amado,” Dr. Bushey said. “I understand you were quite the star on your old school’s team. First in your division? And Coach Caputo is considered one of the best middle school coaches in the state.”
I couldn’t help making a slight gagging noise. It wasn’t my fault. It was a reflex. Coach Caputo is Cody’s dad.
“Oh, Dave.” Dr. Bushey noticed me for the first time. I could sense his disapproval at my having shown up in his office wearing a shirt covered all over in pizza sauce in front of a student who might prove to be such a valuable addition to the Highland Estates Panthers. “I wasn’t aware that we had an appointment today.”
“We don’t,” I assured him with a wink. “But no need to worry. There hasn’t been a repeat performance of what happened last week. Yet.”
The fact that people have started to call me Ginger Dave—and have started to write that name all over my locker door in permanent marker—as well as Shrimp Newburg is also thanks to Cody Caputo. Though I suppose it’s nice of him to try to mix it up. If it weren’t for people calling me names, no one around school would call me anything at all, as I’m almost universally ignored.
“Great,” Dr. Bushey said, sending a nervous glance in the direction of Mrs. Garcia. “Great to know. Why don’t you come in, then? I always have time for my students!”
“It’s true,” I assured Amado and his mom as I made my way into Dr. Bushey’s office. “Dr. Bushey has an open-door policy. Especially for students with special needs.”
I tried to give Amado a meaningful look as I said the words special needs, to let him know I was simpático. After all, Amado and I both had crazy names (it’s unbelievable how many different types of seafood you can smother in Newburg sauce) and seemed to have gotten shafted in the growth hormone department as well.
But apparently Amado didn’t understand my look—or maybe he just didn’t consider himself someone with special needs. He barely glanced at me at all, as a matter of fact, except to avoid me like I was some kind of freak, just like everybody else.
I don’t know what I was expecting. Why would someone as cool as Amado obviously was ever want to be friends with someone like me? Next week, he’d probably be dumping me in the garbage along with the rest of Coach Caputo’s basketball team.<
br />
Following my presentation to Dr. Bushey of the forensic evidence of Cody Caputo’s sexual harassment of my sister—I’d spent fifth period dusting the Boobies: Get some paper for prints using some of my mom’s old eye shadow and a roll of clear packing tape I always keep in my backpack for emergencies, and found that the prints (as well as the handwriting) matched those taken from my locker door last week; I then matched those prints to some I’d taken from a Coke can Cody threw at my head—I was told by Dr. Bushey that he would call Cody into the office to “discuss the situation with him.”
I should have known that this wasn’t going to be the end of the matter, however. The last two times Dr. Bushey had called Cody into the office to “discuss the situation with him,” I’d wound up taped to a urinal by Cody and his cronies.
The fact is, getting division trophies is all Dr. Bushey thinks about. He’d never do anything to make Coach Caputo mad—such as tell him that his son is a complete sociopath—or risk his winning streak or make Coach Caputo consider moving to another school district.
But those other times, I hadn’t had definitive proof that it was Cody who’d written Ginger Dave all over my locker or threw things at my head (it was his word against mine). This time, I did. Surely Dr. Bushey would have to expel—or at least suspend—someone who was going around putting Boobies: Get some signs on girls’ backs, no matter how great a coach his dad was . . . especially in light of actual forensic evidence of his participation in the crime.
Except that I guess forensic evidence doesn’t matter if your dad has won as many district tournaments as Cody’s has. That’s the only explanation I can think of for why, when I arrived at the rack where I lock my bike every morning, I found my official Yeti Shok Jok BMX racing bike—identical to the one Aaron Weinstein will be using in next month’s UCI World Championships in Val di Sole, Italy—missing.
Cody was thoughtful enough to leave a note, and in his own handwriting. If this isn’t flagrant disregard for the law, I don’t know what is:
This is wat hapens to snitches, ginger. Call the cops, and YOU’ll be nex.
This note did not even make grammatical sense. Did Cody mean that if I called the police, he was going to cut me in half with a pair of bolt cutters, the way he had the chain I’d used to lock my bike?
Or that he was going to steal me, the way he had my bike?
It was hard to know for sure.
Every great man has had to overcome hardship during the course of his lifetime. John Maynard Keynes suffered attacks from both the left and right for his economic models, considered by some to be too progressive, and yet by others to be too conservative.
And after shattering his spine in a snowboarding accident at the age of twelve, Aaron Weinstein was told he might never walk—much less engage in recreational sports—ever again.
But neither of these men ever had to deal with an obstacle like Cody Caputo, an extremely poor speller who was nevertheless well above average when it came to the art of torture, especially of persons smaller than himself.
I am not John Maynard Keynes. I am not Aaron Weinstein.
And in my own defense, Cody and Rick and Austin live in the same subdivision that I do. I didn’t want to run into one of them before I’d had a chance to formulate some kind of plan. They couldn’t all have ridden my bike home. At least two of them had to be taking the bus—the same bus I took. If I got on the bus, they’d be there, waiting for me. I’d be outnumbered.
Surely John Maynard and Aaron would have understood this, if they’d known about it.
So I decided to walk home—three whole miles. Dad, I knew, was still at work in the city, and Mom was driving Jenny to the Kirkland Ranch tumbling invitational. I doubted either of them would have been particularly sympathetic if I’d called to ask for a ride, anyway. They’d both warned me when I bought my bike (with the money I earned helping all the residents in Grandpa Newburg’s assisted living community set up Skype accounts so they could chat live with their grandkids) that I’d be the only kid in my whole school with an official Yeti Shok Jok BMX dirt tracker—the most expensive dirt bike on the market—and thus would probably draw the envy of my peers.
This information had actually only made me even more eager to purchase one.
Now I wished I had listened to them.
By the time I got home, the sun had almost set. A single star shone down above the golf course just behind our backyard.
As I drank thirstily from the bottle of Sunny D Mom had left in the fridge—why hadn’t our city planners thought to place a single convenience mart between Highland Estates Middle School and the gated subdivision in which my parents so unwisely chose to make our home?—I gazed upon the star and thought about the song Grandma Newburg used to make Jenny and me sing back when we were little and Mom always dressed us alike.
Later, when everyone was home and gathered around the dinner table for Chinese takeout, I asked, “Do you guys believe that whole thing about when you wish upon a star, your dreams will come true?”
“Of course, sweetie,” Mom said. “Pass the mu shu pork.”
“What’s your wish, bud?” Dad asked.
“That I had a friend,” I said.
Mom dropped the mu shu container.
“I’m your friend, bud,” Dad said after he’d managed to get down the Mandarin chicken on which he’d been choking a little. “So’s your mom. And Jenny.”
“You’re family,” I said. “You don’t count. I mean a real friend, my own age, who could help me with . . . well, stuff.”
“Wishing on stars doesn’t work,” Jenny said. “If it did, I’d have a pony by now, considering how often I’ve wished for one. And don’t tell me that video game you guys bought me counts. I’m twelve, not four.”
“You have lots of friends, Dave,” Mom said, shoveling mu shu back into the container. “Who was that boy I heard you talking to the other night?”
“That was Rajit,” Jenny said. She twirled the gold medal she’d won at her invitational at the ends of her fingers. “He lives in India. He and Dave were playing Aaron Weinstein: Extreme BMX Dirt Trax online. Dave only has virtual friends because Cody Caputo’s made everyone at school so—Ow.”
She glared at me because I’d kicked her under the table.
“Cody Caputo?” Mom echoed. “You mean Coach Caputo’s son? What about him?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “He’s just a bit of a boobie. Don’t you think, Jen?”
She turned bright red.
“Yeah,” she said. “Never mind.”
“What were you trying to do back there?” Jenny hissed at me later, as we loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher after dinner. “You think I want to discuss my boobs in front of Dad?”
“You think I want to discuss getting stuffed in a trash can in front of Mom?” I demanded.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” she asked. “You can’t go around saying you wished you had friends to help you and not expect me to explain to Mom and Dad what you need help with. And you could have friends, you know, if you worked harder at it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you think wishes just happen?” she demanded. “Stars are busy. They can’t sit around all day, making every single one of our wishes come true all by themselves. They need a little help from us. I know if I really want a pony, I need to be like you and go out and earn the money to buy one, like you did with your bike. But I’ve been busy working on my other wish—having the best front walkover roundoff back handspring in the state. Which, by the way, I do.” She dangled her medal in front of me.
I blinked. I had never thought of wishes this way. Jenny didn’t know it, of course, but she’d basically just summed up the neoclassical microeconomic model.
“How am I supposed to work at making friends?” I asked her. “I thought friends just . . . happened.” They certainly seemed to for Jenny. She had billions.
“Well,” she said, “for one thing, it m
ight help if you didn’t go around talking about that old dead guy and Aaron Weinstein so much.”
Old dead guy? Did she mean . . . she couldn’t. John Maynard Keynes? He was certainly more than some old dead guy. And Aaron Weinstein? Aaron Weinstein was known, in BMX circles, as the Golden Child, a fact of which Jenny was obviously not aware.
I decided to forgive her, however, considering she was being so informative.
“And if people didn’t think that by associating with you they’d get taped to a urinal by Cody Caputo, well, that might help, too,” she went on. “What happened with Dr. Bushey, anyway?”
I didn’t want to tell her about my bike. No one had noticed it was missing from its usual place in the garage.
“He’s going to speak with Cody,” I said stiffly. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Jenny said sarcastically. “Just like last time. Look, Dave. People would probably like you a lot if they knew you as well as I did. Treat making friends the way you did getting that bike you wanted. Make it like a job, not a wish. Okay?”
I don’t know what I ever did to deserve a sister like Jenny. But I’m pretty lucky, I guess.
Later that night, Dad tapped on my door.
“Hey, bud,” he said. “Just checking in. Anything you might, I don’t know, want to talk about?”
I lowered my copy of The General Theory of Employment, Interest, and Money, to which I often turn in times of distress.
“Yeah, Dad,” I said. “There is. Do you think you could give me a ride to school tomorrow? The Shok Jok’s got a flat.”
Dad winced. “Oh, sorry, bud,” he said. “No can do. Gonna be gone before you get up. Early meeting. But I’ll leave you money on the counter so you can get that flat fixed. How’s that? Have a good night, now.”
Sometimes parents are great, even when they’re blundering around without the slightest idea what they’re doing. Aaron Weinstein’s mom, for instance, bought him his first dirt bike at a garage sale after the doctor said he’d never snowboard again, just because she thought biking might be therapeutic for him, since he couldn’t walk so well with his broken spine and all.
What You Wish For Page 5