Josh Baxter Levels Up

by Gavin Brown

  “Whatever,” I say. This whole moving thing was her idea. Why shouldn’t she see what it’s putting me through?

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

  Video games are supposed to be a mom-free zone. Who would want an annoying mom asking how your day was in a game? She’s like the updates that apps are constantly begging for. Necessary, sure. Important, even. But so frustrating.

  I shrug. When Dad was here, at least he got my gamer needs. Even if he would sometimes take the controller to “show you one thing” and keep it for about an hour.

  “Okay, well, I’ll be around if you want to talk,” she says, and leaves me alone.

  I sit there without moving for a few more minutes. I’ve lost a life. But any decent game gives you at least three lives, so I have two left.

  I need a plan.

  While a lot of my heroes seem to punch their way out of problems, that isn’t an option for me. I’ve never heard of someone punching their way into getting good grades or making friends. And fighting a football star, even if he deserves it, is a recipe to end up in the hospital. Football wasn’t a big deal at my old schools, but down here it’s more popular than an all-you-can-eat buffet. There are posters all over the halls for the big game that’s coming up against Lancaster.

  Mittens is tough—too tough. If I can’t win with strength, my best bet is to follow the way of the ninja. Use stealth and cleverness. I figure that if no one notices what I’m doing, everything in my life will be smooth. Given how I’ve started out, I need to lie low for a while.

  I hope that Schmittendorf will ignore me the next day, but instead he swaggers over to sneer at me in the locker room.

  “Hey, Creep, seen anything good in the girls’ locker room today? I bet you could fit through the air duct to sneak in there.” His friends all laugh.

  The label sticks, but I ignore it. Ninjas don’t react when people make fun of them.

  “Eyes to yourself, Creep,” Schmittendorf says every day as we pass in the hallway.

  Each morning I use my ninja stealth skills to slip out of homeroom and head straight for the gym. I change clothes like it’s a SpeedRun and get out of there before more than one or two guys have even arrived. And I triple-check every time that I’m going into the right locker room.

  One day in math class, Mittens is telling a bunch of kids at the front of the room about some new play his team is running. I do my best to ignore him, sitting in the back drawing the giant Mitten Monster, with a diagram showing his weak points—like the membrane between the thumb and index finger—and strategic notes.

  “Hey, Creep, what’s your problem?” Mittens calls from the front of the classroom. I keep drawing, not even looking up. A ninja wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Mittens, explain about the flip-six play again,” that Peter kid I talked to on the first day says. It sounds sarcastic to me, but Mittens isn’t about to miss a chance to brag some more. He goes back to talking about football without me ever having to respond at all. Ninja victory.

  “Students, pay attention,” Mr. Ramirez says, and the room quiets down. He starts sketching something out on the board. “Today we’ll learn about the surface area of regular solids.”

  I try to copy the symbols down onto my sheet. He’s drawn a pyramid on the board, but somehow mine comes out looking more like a lopsided airplane.

  “This is a regular pyramid. It’s like a triangle, but in three dimensions.” He speaks with excitement, as if this is somehow fun. The day before, I overheard some of the kids saying he used to be some kind of math prodigy when he was a kid. All that math must have fried his brain. I guess math is a bit like dark sorcery—even as you make use of it, it is also using you.

  “Can any of you explain what a regular polyhedron is?” he asks.

  One of my ninja tricks is to raise my hand even when I don’t know the answer. Then I lower it, erase something, and shake my head, like I found a mistake. It makes it seem like I’m working hard and mostly understand what’s going on. There’s no way Mr. Ramirez will call on me after a performance like that.

  And this time, at least, it works. He calls on one of the girls sitting by the windows.

  Mr. Ramirez continues the lesson, ramping up the challenge as he goes. At first it all makes sense, but by the end of class it’s about as easy to understand as that time I accidentally set a game to Russian mode. But I am a ninja, using stealth to avoid the world. So I nod and try to look like I get it.

  Ninjas don’t ask questions, no matter how confused they are.

  Mr. Ramirez puts another incomprehensible problem on the board.

  “Oh, I know this one! I know this one!” Taniko says to herself as she writes with one hand and raises her other hand, waving it around like a war banner. My other trick: sit next to Taniko. She’s a pure elemental force, a whirlwind trapped in the body of a girl. With her making noise and waving her hand like a maniac, I escape notice. Ninjas use the environment around them to their advantage.

  “Joshua, what did you get for it? Twelve times X, right?” she whispers, as Mr. Ramirez waits for everyone to finish.

  Taniko is one of the only people in the class who doesn’t call me Creep. But it isn’t that she wants to be nice; it’s because she and Maya aren’t friends with the popular kids, so they aren’t plugged in to the Humiliating Nickname Update Network that lets everyone know how to ruin your life.

  “Yeah,” I say with a shrug, erasing my answer and writing 12x down on my sheet.

  When the class is over and I’m walking to the door, I feel a push from behind me.

  “Whoops!” Mittens says. “Sorry, Josh!” It almost sounds sincere.

  My textbooks tumble out of my arms, and my sketchbook falls to the floor. Mittens leans down and picks it up, pretending to be helpful.

  “Really sorry about that, man,” he adds, then stops short.

  I look down and it feels like my kart has been hit dead-on by a blue shell. The sketchbook is open to a picture of the Mitten Monster in all its Mitten-y glory.

  Schmittendorf leans in, hissing his words like a basilisk. “You don’t learn, do you? Kids used to make fun of me, used to joke about my name. No one does that anymore. And you’re not going to start it, Creep.”

  Sometimes the universe sets you up in a conversation where there’s something that just has to be said. Who am I to say no, when the powers of the universe force such a destiny on me? Usually it’s a bad joke that makes my sister hit me, but sometimes … it gets me into big trouble.

  “Yeah, must be really tough, having people make fun of you,” I shoot back.

  He doesn’t hit me, but I can see in his eyes pure rage, the boiling suns of a villain who has marked you for utter destruction. But Mr. Ramirez is standing across the room, creating that mysterious field in which even Darth Mittens has to pretend not to have fallen completely to the dark side.

  I grab my books and practically sprint to English. A few minutes later I settle into my seat, incredibly grateful that this class does not include Mittens.

  Not getting called on in class is the best way to avoid other kids paying attention to you. But avoiding getting noticed in English class is a challenge. Mr. Ramirez in math is easy to fool, but Ms. Pritchard has the eyes of a seer, able to tell the future from tea leaves or divine the fact that you didn’t do your writing homework from the guilty expression on your face.

  She takes one look at me as she walks by and can instantly tell that I forgot to write my journal entries on Tuck Everlasting.

  “Um, let me look for it,” I say, rummaging through my backpack.

  She doesn’t even stand and wait, or pretend to believe me. You can’t fool an enchantress.

  “Don’t try to deceive me, Josh,” she says with an air of serene calm. “It demeans you and me both.”

  My shoulders slump. What am I going to do, argue with her when I really haven’t done the reading or written my journal entry? And worst of all, I actually feel a l
ittle guilty.

  Ninjas aren’t supposed to feel guilt. They’re supposed to be tireless, stealthy killing machines. I sit through the class and resolve to try to at least do a bit of my homework next time, so I have something to hand in. If nothing else, on the ride to school I can read the first few pages and scribble something down. Then I can avoid Ms. Pritchard’s dressing down while still doing the minimum amount of effort, ninja style.

  There’s one important difference I’m discovering between me and ninjas: Ninjas don’t have to sit through lunch at Howard Taft Middle School every single day. Do ninjas even eat? If they do, it’s not sitting at a table alone or, worse, stuck with a bunch of kids who ignore them.

  I’m sitting by myself when Maya and Taniko come and sit at the other end of the table.

  “Oh, hello, Joshua,” Taniko says. Her fingers are twirling a pen with the speed of the whirlwind. I can only imagine the endless hours of practice that have perfected that skill.

  “Hey, Josh,” Maya adds.

  It’s embarrassing to admit, but even that little bit of acknowledgment feels pretty good.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  They sit down, and I try to pay attention to my food.

  “It’s weird, having Mr. Ramirez come over to my house. He and my dad are planning the Video Game Decathlon,” Taniko says. I can’t help but perk up.

  “What’s that?” I blurt out.

  “Oh, it’s a fund-raiser for the class trip in the spring,” Maya says, offhand. She pokes her fork at Taniko. “Are you going to join our team this year?”

  Taniko shrugs. “I guess so.”

  “We need you,” Maya says, shaking her head in a way that makes me suspect this conversation has happened more than one time. “You always crush me at Mario Kart. It’s too bad the Shultz sisters went to private school.” She stares into the distance. “They were unstoppable at Smash Bros. With them we might have had a chance against the jock squad. Even if we get crushed at Splatoon and whatever that football game is.”

  Smash Bros. is my game, the one I always come back to when I finish another game or want something familiar. I’ve invented my own Ultimate World Championship mode where I have to win ten brawls in a row at top difficulty. I play as Luigi, and I am unstoppable.

  I open my mouth to say something, but the Mitten Monster and his mitten minions are sitting down at the next table over. As he puts his tray down, Schmittendorf looks over at me. I look down at my plate, trying to avoid his gaze. My mouth is still open, so I try to cover by shoveling a spoonful of corn into it.

  Maya gives me an odd look. One of those you-are-a-total-weirdo looks.

  “Did you think any more about the designs for our game that I sent last week?” Maya asks Taniko, and the moment is over.

  I stare into the distance, letting the pure discipline of the ninja settle over me. I’m fine. Ninjas don’t need to ask questions anyway. They figure things out by intuition and silent observation. Or by demanding answers in a husky voice with a cool accent.

  That afternoon when I get home, I console myself with a round of Smash Bros. Ultimate World Championship mode, to prove that I can still win at something. I’m at the end of a hard-fought ninth match when Lindsay walks in.

  “How was your day?” she asks, totally interrupting my Intense Gamer Flow State. No matter how many times I explain it to her and Mom, they don’t seem to get how important it is.

  On-screen, Luigi falls down into oblivion, and I look up at my annoying sister. Part of why I lost my concentration is that she doesn’t usually ask questions like that. I figure Mom must have asked her to check up on me.

  “Fine,” I answer.

  Mom used to make me go outside, but with her second job at the cell phone store, she rarely makes it home for dinner. Usually Lindsay and I microwave some FastNLean meals and watch Celebrity Yodeling Weight Loss Challenge, or whatever show it is she insists on.

  “School good?” Lindsay asks.

  “Yeah, fine.” I really don’t want to, but I ask anyway. “You?”

  That one word is all the opening she needs. She launches into some story about a boy and one of her teammates, and them only having one spoon for ice cream on their date.

  I don’t really listen; I just watch her hands gesture wildly as she tells the story. The movements are fascinating, like she’s trying to cast some sort of gossip spell.

  It gets even worse when she tries to help me.

  “Josh, you should get out more,” Lindsay says. She’s putting on her shoes before going out to a movie with some of her teammates. At this point I’ve switched to playing Star Fox and am starting to feel myself slipping into Intense Gamer Flow State, but Lindsay never lets that get in the way of harassing me.

  Of course I’d be happy to be going out to a movie with some friends, but I’ll let myself be tossed into Tartarus before I’ll admit that to my big sister.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to keep my concentration as I navigate Fox through an asteroid field.

  “No, really, why don’t you go out with your friends more?”

  “I’m fine, Linds. Let me play.”

  “Whatever.” She shrugs and leaves me in peace.

  I mash a button angrily and careen into the nearest asteroid. I want to yell, tell her that three new schools in two years have lost me every friend I had. Plus, last Christmas they all got the new PlayStation and now I can’t even play the new games they’re into. The clans we were all in have become digital ghost towns. Like my social life. Nowadays, the only contact I have with them is when they send me a picture of one of them snarfing milk in the cafeteria or whatever.

  I could rage at Lindsay for the rest of the night, but I let her toxic sisterliness wash past me. With the way of the ninja, I have a secret weapon. Nothing can touch me.

  Schmittendorf is sneering at me again. I can see the big red B+ written at the top of his math test. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, except that mine is stamped with a D–. With all the homework assignments I’ve missed, the Pythagorean Theorem Boss Fight has not gone well.

  “Let’s talk after class, Josh,” Mr. Ramirez says as he walks past me to pass back the rest of the tests.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Schmittendorf snickering. I consider using a grappling hook to climb into the ceiling tiles so I can disappear into the air vents, never to return. But ninja moves like that are hard to pull off under fluorescent school light without anyone noticing. Ninjas are much better off in a misty twilight atmosphere.

  After class, Mittens swaggers out with his friends, and I stay behind to talk to Mr. Ramirez. I walk up to his desk and he looks up at me from under his spectacles, his forehead wrinkled in thought. I wait uneasily, trying my best to be patient. Ninjas don’t volunteer to start difficult conversations. Avoiding uncomfortable talks with your teachers must be a core skill all ninjas learn in ninja school.

  Urgent question: Why couldn’t Mom have gotten a new job somewhere that had a ninja school?

  “Josh, you are close to failing grades,” he says finally.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I’m not very good at math, I guess,” I say.

  “I’m not sure that’s true. You did fairly well on the placement exam. But you don’t seem to be keeping up with the homework.”

  Math skills run in the family, with Mom being an accountant and all. She used to help me out with my math assignments, but somehow she never seems to have time for that anymore.

  “I’m … a little distracted,” I say.

  Mr. Ramirez nods. “I understand. You’re not actually failing at the moment. Please try to do more of your homework assignments, all right?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Are you adjusting to the new school okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  We look at each other silently for a moment.

  “Okay, see you tomorrow,” he says, turning down to the papers on his d
esk. “Let me know if you need any help.”

  The next day, when I arrive for my writing conference with Ms. Pritchard, I expect the worst. I poke my head in the door and am relieved to find her still talking with Maya. Maybe things are running behind and she won’t have much time for me.

  “Josh, come in and sit down,” Ms. Pritchard says, smiling.

  I sit. Ms. Pritchard is definitely some sort of enchantress. The fluorescent lights are off, so the light comes from lamps positioned around the room. Every wall is covered in bookshelves, and Ms. Pritchard’s desk is heaped with even more books. Maya is looking at the Enchantress’s piles of ancient tomes, at the posters of old authors on the walls, anywhere but at me.

  “Josh, when we do writing exercises in class, you are extremely creative and prolific. But on the rare occasions that you hand in your homework, it looks like it was scribbled by a chimpanzee during an earthquake.” Ms. Pritchard peers at me over the rims of her glasses. “Why do you think that is?”

  Whenever I see Ms. Pritchard outside of her room, she looks out of place. Something about the round glasses, vintage clothes, and air of being slightly lost makes you want to stop her and ask if she needs directions back to her room. Or ask if you can hire her to cast a hex on a bully.

  Today she looks kind of sad but determined as she waits for my answer.

  I sag in my chair. “Am I failing this class, too?”

  Ms. Pritchard smiles and shakes her head. “No, I’m sure you won’t actually fail. But my job isn’t to get you to pass with a C average. My job is to sow the seeds of creativity and have every student’s sapling of knowledge grow up to his or her mighty oak of potential.”

  Yep, there she goes again. Taking me seriously. I glance over at Maya to see if she agrees. She is watching me with an almost nervous look on her face.

  “Okay,” I agree tentatively, not sure where this is going.

  “You’re so creative, Josh, I want to help you unlock that portion of your mind. So we’re going to give you a writing tutor. Think of her like the key to open that door.” She motions at Maya. “Maya is in my creative writing workshop elective, and as part of the elective, every writer must tutor a student from one of my other classes.”