Jay Versus the Saxophone of Doom

by Kara Kootstra

  PUFFIN

  an imprint of Penguin Canada Books Inc., a Penguin Random House Company

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Canada Books Inc., 320 Front Street West, Suite 1400, Toronto, Ontario M5V 3B6, Canada

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published 2017

  Text copyright © Kara Kootstra, 2017

  Illustrations copyright © Kim Smith, 2017

  Afterword copyright © Bobby Orr, 2017

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Kootstra, Kara, 1982–, author

  Jay versus the saxophone of doom /

  Kara Kootstra ; illustrated by Kim Smith.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-0-670-06940-8 (hardcover).—ISBN 978-0-14-319374-6 (paperback).

  —ISBN 978-0-14-319375-3 (epub)

  I. Smith, Kim, 1986–, illustrator II. Title.

  PS8621.O665B69 2017 jC813'.6 C2016-900945-9

  C2016-900946-7

  Visit the Penguin Canada website at www.​penguinrandomhouse.​ca

  v4.1

  a

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Acknowledgments

  For two great encouragers of my creativity—

  Lynne and Pam

  CHAPTER 1

  Three beeps.

  Three, long, ear-piercingly loud, ANNOYING beeps.

  Three beeps that sound to my foggy, half-awake brain a whole lot like, “Get up, Jay, it’s the first day of school, and another fun-filled year of torturous misery awaits you!”

  My eyes still closed, I feel around the nightstand until my hand finally reaches the top of the terrible plastic thing. I smack the button a couple of times before the blaring stops, and let out a small yawn as I finally crawl out of bed. Quickly throwing on my T-shirt and jeans, it occurs to me that getting ready for the first day of school isn’t all that different from getting ready for a hockey game. Put on the right uniform. Pack the right gear. Eat a good breakfast (well, that’s what my mom says, anyway, and if I try to leave without eating she basically pries my mouth open and shoves the food in). Keep your eyes open. Watch your opponents. Most kids just play by the rules and the game is easy. Maybe if I could bring a stick and a pair of skates to school I would find it easy too.

  —

  GAME TIP #1: Do not bring a hockey stick to school, as it is considered a weapon and you will be sent to the principal’s office. I won’t get into it, but trust me on this one.

  It’s not that school is completely terrible. I’ve always managed to do all right, and there are a few subjects that I even kind of like. But that doesn’t mean I’m the guy skipping to school, excitedly waiting to do a math problem, either. I mean, I guess I’m not really the guy that “skips” anywhere, but my point is I am DEFINITELY not skipping to school. Here’s the thing. Sometimes when I’m in class my mind tends to wander a bit. And it usually wanders to one particular subject. In fact, I’m thinking about it right now. The greatest game in existence. (You didn’t think football, did you? Tell me you didn’t think football.) It is, of course, HOCKEY. You could say I’m a little obsessed.

  The other problem with school is that I am constantly trying to avoid MICK BARTLET. Mick is a very large, VERY annoying kid who has been in the same class as me literally every year since kindergarten. He’s always calling me “squirt” (I’m not the biggest kid around) and he takes great pleasure in trying to ruin my life. My mom always says that I’m being “dramatic” when I say things like that, but I swear the guy has “Ruin Jay’s Life” on a checklist somewhere. I guess the word to describe Mick would be “bully,” although he has never tried to take my lunch money or anything. Bullies in the movies usually do that.

  Maybe this will finally be the year that Mick is put in a different class. The odds have to work in my favor eventually, right? Right.

  Now, if my mom were here right now, she would probably say that I’m being rude because I haven’t introduced myself. She would also probably tell me to “Get that hair out of your eyes so I can see your handsome face,” or “For goodness sake, Jason, you’re going to bite your nails right down to the bone,” or my personal favorite, “Take your elbows off the table, this is not a horse’s stable!” But I suppose an introduction is probably in order.

  My name is Jason, but most people just call me Jay or J.R. or Roberts, which is my last name. You should also know that on occasion my friends call me “Ralph” (which, in case you weren’t aware, is another word for vomit), referring to an incident at camp involving a whole bag of marshmallows and a shaken can of pop. I will spare you the details of that tragic night, in case you have a weak stomach or you started reading this book right before breakfast.

  Okay, this is starting to feel like one of those “All About Me” assignments we used to do in school. You know, the one where you have to fill a whole page about what you like to do and then finish it off with a picture of yourself, which doesn’t look anything like you because for some reason every kid draws a self-portrait without a neck or, like, ankles or something. I used to do pretty poorly on those things because not only was my picture neck-lacking but also I don’t really have a whole lot of different things I like to do. In fact, I only have one thing I like to do, as I’ve already mentioned.

  Hockey.

  But we’ll get back to that. I should probably tell you a little bit about my family, or maybe the correct expression is warn you about my family, as they are all pretty weird and I am just about the only normal person that lives in this house. Don’t believe me? Here’s the lineup.

  JODIE

  Jodie is my older sister, and she thinks she is SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL because she’s in her second year of high school. I think it is SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL that I only have to wait three years before she goes
away to university. Jodie moving out will mean two things for me. First of all, I will get her room, which is substantially bigger than mine. Second of all, I will no longer have to deal with her excessive eye-rolling.

  Mom: “What happened at school today?”

  Eye-roll.

  Dad: “Do you want to go to the movies tonight?”

  Eye-roll.

  Me: “Would you like a brand-new car, a million dollars, and a private island named after you?”

  You got it: eye-roll.

  Jodie pretty much lives to torture me, and since you probably think I’m exaggerating, let me tell you a quick story. When I was six, I had an imaginary friend named Zach. (Oh, come on, I was six…as if you didn’t have an imaginary friend when you were little. You’re probably picturing him right now.) Anyway, Zach was the coolest imaginary friend ever. Among other things, he could fly and shoot laser beams out of his fingers. I mean, if you’re going to make up a friend, you might as well make him AWESOME, right? So one day, I come home from school and Jodie sits me down to tell me that Zach was involved in a terrible accident and, tragically, his injuries were fatal.

  Yes, that’s right. My sister KILLED MY IMAGINARY FRIEND. Now, in hindsight, I should have realized that no one can kill a person who isn’t real, but at the time I was inconsolable. So, in order to “help” her griefstricken brother, my sister planned a funeral for Zach. Yep, the first funeral I ever attended was for my imaginary friend. My sister played a song on her recorder and I made a speech and everything. Pretty twisted, right? And think…I sleep right down the hallway from her.

  DYLAN

  Dylan is two years older than me and is in grade eight. We have kind of a love-hate relationship. One day we’re playing video games or pickup hockey with kids on our street, and the next day he’s hiding my helmet an hour before a playoff game. (Side note: I did end up finding the helmet, which had been dipped in water and hidden in our freezer. Dylan thought it was pretty funny, until I returned the favor with his jockstrap.) Dylan just pretends I don’t exist when we see each other at school, unless he needs to mooch off my lunch because he forgot his. This arrangement suits me just fine.

  DAD

  My dad is your typical dad. He spends most of his days thinking of new and exciting ways to completely embarrass me. To date, he has an excellent track record. For example:

  1. Insisting that a middle-aged man can totally “rock the hipster look.” No, Dad, a father of three should definitely NOT be wearing skinny jeans.

  2. Dropping me off at school and then rolling down the window to shout, “Jason, don’t forget your doctor’s appointment after school so that we can get that rash looked at,” in front of everyone. Because he couldn’t have remembered to say that five minutes ago when we were still in the car.

  3. Singing along to the radio at the top of his lungs while we’re carpooling my friends. Occasionally, this is accompanied by his version of “dance moves,” which is really just a lot of body flailing, with a few fist-pumps thrown in.

  MOM

  My mom is what you would call a loud-talker. Most of the time, I’m so used to her piercingly loud voice that I don’t even notice it. But then we’ll be in a packed movie theater, and she’ll “whisper” things like, “I don’t get it…which one is the bad guy?” or “Oh, he’s that actor from that other film…what was that film, dear? The one with the people from the future? You know the one, what was that called…?” And you try to sink as low as you can into your seat and hope that people think you just happen to be seated next to the weird lady. Which usually doesn’t work because she inevitably tries to pass you popcorn in a completely inappropriate, LOUD way.

  And it’s not just in movie theaters. She is loud in just about every social situation. For instance, Mom can’t just go up to the check-in window at the doctor’s office and discreetly let them know that her son is in to get a rash looked at. No, she needs to let the entire waiting room know where the rash is and how I can’t stop scratching it. (Yes, I’m a little bitter about the rash situation. Mom and Dad both really let me down on that one.)

  You see what I’m dealing with? I’m not saying they don’t have their good qualities, but…it’s kind of a madhouse around here.

  And then there is the honorary member of my family. I can’t possibly finish this “All About Me” introduction without mentioning my role model. My hero. THE BEST HOCKEY PLAYER TO EVER STEP ON THE ICE. (That’s not an opinion—that’s just a fact.) The one, the only…

  BOBBY ORR

  Living in Parry Sound, the town where Bobby Orr was born, is definitely one of the reasons I grew up knowing about him, but it was my Grandpa Joe who passed on his love for hockey and his Bobby Orr super-fan status to my father and me. I can still remember sitting with my grandpa in his old corduroy chair, poring over highlights from Bobby Orr’s career (which was much too short—“a crying shame,” Grandpa would say). Grandpa would be munching on pretzels, giving his own commentary over the announcer’s. I couldn’t believe the stuff that Bobby Orr could do on the ice—easily skating around his opponents to find his way to the net for a goal, or, if his team was unable to score, fading back to play his position as a defenseman. I knew that, just like my grandpa, I would be a fan for life.

  In fact, my whole family loves Bobby Orr and his old team, the Boston Bruins. Watching a Bruins game is literally still the ONE thing we can all do together that doesn’t end in some form of yelling/hitting/crying, which I know would make my grandpa happy. A few years ago, Grandpa Joe passed away, leaving me with a ton of Bobby Orr memorabilia—hockey cards, jerseys, books, posters, even a bobblehead Bobby (try saying that five times fast). Dad says that even though Grandpa is gone, his love for the game and for his hero lives on in us.

  But enough of that sappy stuff. Back to my original point: Bobby Orr is an honorary member of my family. Often, if I’m in a jam, on or off the ice, I try to imagine what the great Bobby Orr would do and go from there. (You might be thinking that it sounds like I still have an imaginary friend, but this is different. Mostly because there are no laser-hands involved. Although thinking about Bobby Orr with laser-hands is kind of an awesome visual.) I figure if I follow in Bobby Orr’s footsteps then I will also become a PROFESSIONAL HOCKEY PLAYER STANLEY CUP CHAMPION LEAD GOAL-SCORING DEFENSEMAN. Or…maybe something close to that, at least. And, of course, there is only one number I wear on the ice. The number of my hockey legend:

  #4

  I play for a team called the Parry Sound Shamrocks (the same team Bobby Orr played for as a kid, no big deal) and I play center. Our season is just starting and we will soon be playing Saturday games with teams from neighboring towns. Our team is pretty solid so we usually do well, and I’m not trying to brag or anything but I can hold my own. I’m not the biggest or fastest guy out there, and it’s not like I score a million goals a game or anything, but Dad says that I play the game “smart,” meaning that I’m usually thinking a step ahead of the other guys. I can kind of see the play before it happens and get to where I need to be. And I can handle a puck, too, mostly because if I’m not in school or sleeping…I’ve got a stick in my hands and a puck at the end of it.

  “Jay, sweetie, you’re going to be late,” my mother is shouting from the bottom of the stairs, her voice snapping me back to reality.

  SCHOOL. I am almost 100 percent sure that our parents and/or teachers are involved in a conspiracy that is making every summer just a bit shorter. I can’t prove it yet, but I had barely put on my board shorts when my mom was dragging me to the mall for back-to-school shopping.

  Last year, my teacher taught me what the word “synonym” means. A synonym is a word that means the same thing as another word. Like couch and sofa. Or wrong and incorrect. So let me give you some synonyms for back-to-school shopping. Horrible-torture. Terrifying-nightmare. THE-WORST-THING-I-CAN-POSSIBLY-THINK-OF. (Okay, so, you get the point.) And here I am now, in the back-to-school clothes that my mom and I finally agreed on: a pair of jeans and
a “presentable” T-shirt. Here is a list of the shirts that were not considered “presentable”:

  1. Shirts that look “faded.” (“Honestly, Jason, nineteen dollars for a shirt that looks like someone poured bleach in the prewash cycle!?”)

  2. Shirts with phrases on them. (“What does pwnd mean? There isn’t even a vowel in it.”)

  3. Black shirts. (“They look depressing.”)

  4. White shirts. (“They stain too easily.”)

  5. Any shirts that will make someone look—in any way, shape, or form—cool.

  So I am wearing a plain, pale blue t-shirt, because, let’s face it, that’s way better than the dress shirt tucked into a pair of khakis that my mom thought looked “dashing and smart.” After all, I’m just a kid trying to survive the sixth grade.

  Give a guy a chance.

  CHAPTER 2

  I kinda-sorta make my bed by throwing the covers up near the pillow region, then I look at the clock: 8:15. Gotta go. I shove all my newly purchased school supplies into my backpack and head down the stairs, already anticipating the scene that is awaiting me.

  Here’s the play-by-play:

  —

  GAME TIP #2: Never EVER let your mom convince you to take a photo with a prop. It doesn’t matter what the prop is…a book, an apple, even something you think is cool. You will always end up looking lame, and you will have to walk by that picture in the hallway for the rest of your life every time you go to the bathroom.

  “Oh, Jay, darling! You look so handsome!”

  I can tell my mother is already getting weepy so I quickly sit down and ask my dad to pass the cereal, hoping to avert a messy-crying-crazy-emotional situation. When I actually start to pour my favorite cereal into the bowl, only a few tiny pieces fall out of the box, which causes Dylan to break out into hysterical laughter (a total overreaction considering a five-year-old wouldn’t find this funny) as he shovels heaping spoonfuls of the stuff into his mouth. Dylan doesn’t even like cereal.