Josh Baxter Levels Up

by Gavin Brown

  I check the area around my locker for the notebook. Nothing but a few scraps that ripped when Mittens and I fought over it. Someone picked it up. For all I know, they spent the last period of the day showing it to everyone and laughing at me.

  Schmittendorf’s dad arrives first, picking up him and Stan. While Mr. Alpert goes down to talk with the three of them, I turn to Peter.

  “Thanks for helping me out, but I’m sorry you got caught in this. I tried to get you out of it, but—”

  He cuts me off, with a huge grin on his face. “Are you kidding? That was EPIC. And besides, I couldn’t let those jerks gang up on you.”

  I stare back at him, realizing that the only person at Howard Taft Middle School who would stick up for me is probably a maniac with a death wish. My first impression was right: definitely a rogue.

  “When I first moved here from Moscow, I barely spoke any English,” he says. “When they didn’t ignore me, they called me names. And at recess they would speak in fake Russian, hold me down, and spit in my hair.”

  “Wow,” I say. I guess he has kind of a decent reason for holding a grudge.

  “Oh, there’s my mom. Catch ya later, guy!” he says, punching me lightly on the arm and running for his mom’s van.

  Mr. Alpert is still talking to Mittens’s dad, who looks like a six-foot-five version of Mittens, but with a big fat gut instead of muscles. He’s red in the face and his voice is like a foghorn. Mittens stares at the ground while his dad yells, but when he looks up and sees me watching, he scowls.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Mr. Schmittendorf shouts. “The team needs Henry—he’s the only one on the team who can catch anything. They’ll never beat Lancaster without him!” He glares at his son. “And don’t get me started with you, kid. That’s the one you were fighting with? You telling me you couldn’t keep a scrawny kid like that from knocking you over? What are you gonna do when the Lancaster defense comes at you? They’re twice his size!”

  Mr. Alpert tries to say something, but Mr. Schmittendorf ignores him and keeps yelling while the boys get in the car. Finally they drive away.

  I know my mom had to leave work to come get me, so I don’t blame her for being late. When she does come, she steps out of the car before I can get in.

  “Again, I’m so sorry, Mr. Alpert,” she says. They must have already had a conversation when he called to tell her I had missed the bus and needed to be picked up. I’m just glad I’ve been spared the humiliation of having to call or text her myself.

  I’m expecting her to scream at me, but we spend the ride home in icy silence. It’s almost worse than being yelled at. Her lips are pursed, and she has a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, like when I hold the controller in the final lap of a Mario Kart cup race. She doesn’t look over at me once, the whole time.

  After a ride that seems to last three times longer than normal, we pull into the driveway. I try to head straight for my room, but when we get to the living room Mom grabs my shoulder in a kung fu death grip and guides me to the couch.

  “Josh, you know I love you,” she says.

  I gulp and nod. This is not a good sign.

  “But getting in a fight at school? Really?” she says. It’s almost a relief, an end to the silence. “And Mr. Alpert said that you started it. I know you can’t control everything that happens at school, but you can’t be starting fights.”

  I nod again, not knowing how to respond to the rising volume of her voice.

  “We’re having a hard enough time as it is, without you getting in trouble. I had to take off from the bank early to come pick you up. The bank manager gave me such a look when I told him … and what would happen if you had actually gotten suspended instead of in-school suspension? I can’t take any more days off work. I can’t.”

  On the other hand, she’s the one who decided to move here, someplace where I don’t fit in even a little bit. But I can’t say that.

  “And you don’t even seem to try at school,” Mom went on, her volume rising steadily. “Your sister is already testing into the advanced track, and you’re barely passing your classes. It’s like you don’t care.”

  Of course I don’t care about school. How can I, when every time I get settled, we pack up and move somewhere else?

  “Josh, can you tell me what the heck you were thinking? What possibly possessed you to do this?” she demands, not actually giving me the time to answer her questions. “What would your dad think of—”

  And then she runs out of energy, like someone pulled the power plug.

  If Dad were still around, I wouldn’t be getting into fights. We wouldn’t have had to move, and I would still have friends. But I can’t tell Mom that. “Mom, I got in a fight. I’m okay, it’s fine.”

  She sighs. “And this was supposed to be one of the suburbs with the good schools.”

  My old school was a good school. One where I had friends, and hadn’t missed big chunks of math class.

  Back when Dad was alive and Mom was still around enough to pay attention to me and not just yell at me and take my stuff away.

  The next morning I stumble out of bed and get ready in a stupor, moving automatically. I brush my teeth and shower. In the mirror, I can see the thousand-yard zombie stare in my eyes. No feelings or thoughts. Just routine. Mom has already gone to work, but there’s breakfast on the table and a note saying I love you guys. Have a great day!

  Maybe she has somehow repressed the fact that I’m going to spend the day suffering through in-school suspension. Or maybe she thinks I deserve it and doesn’t care.

  On the bus I slide down as low as I can and try to draw in a fresh notebook. But everything comes out jagged, messy, and ugly. Writing a page for homework on the bus is hard enough, but drawing is impossible.

  From the moment I walk through the front doors of the school, I know something is off. A girl glares at me over her books, with rage in her eyes that could almost power a deadly curse.

  I look ahead and walk down the hall. To my left, I can hear a boy’s voice in a fake whisper. “He’s the one. It’s all his fault.”

  “He probably did it on purpose,” a girl answers.

  I keep walking.

  “Wait, what did he do?” a kid says.

  “He got Mittens detention,” another adds, her voice hissing with fury.

  I keep walking, no matter what I hear in the whispers weaving their way through the school around me.

  Being in detention may almost be a relief—I won’t have to face all of these kids. A minute later I’m standing in front of my locker, staring into the depths of Vault 151 and contemplating my fate. If someone looks at those drawings, it will be disastrous. I’ve drawn video game versions of half the kids in my classes. And Mittens is featured prominently. If he finds out that I’ve still been drawing parodies of him …

  Trying to think back through what was in that sketchbook, I realize that the last few pages had a bunch of doodles of Maya, the Punk Princess. I can feel my face flushing in embarrassment already, knowing what people will think if they see those. What she will think.

  I gaze into the shadowy depths of Vault 151. Wishing some sort of answer would tumble out of it.

  “Hey, Josh, are you okay?”

  I turn. It’s Maya, with her face all knit up in worry. I can tell she’s staring at the bruise on my face.

  I shrug. “Yeah, I’m fine. I have in-school suspension. Sorry I’m going to miss our next meeting. I’ve been working on the writing.”

  She shakes her head. “That doesn’t matter—I’m just glad you’re okay. I arrived when that linebacker had you pinned.”

  I shudder. For a second I feel again the helplessness of that huge guy holding me while the Mitten Monster swings to put a dent in my skull. “Yeah, I lucked out. This could have been a lot worse, I guess,” I say, pointing to my nose.

  “Don’t get in any more fights, okay?” she says, as she pulls off her backpack and opens it up. I can’t quite tell whether s
he’s concerned or annoyed.

  “You don’t need to tell me that. I almost got crushed. Anyway, I have to head to detention. Probably not a good idea to be late for that.”

  “Sure,” she says. “But this is yours, isn’t it?” She reaches into her backpack, roots around for a minute, and pulls out a sketchbook.

  I stare down with what I’m sure is a really dumb jaw-hanging-open look.

  “I found it on the floor when the teachers made everyone clear out after the fight. You had it during our meeting last week, right? The Pikachu on the back cover is really cool.”

  “Yeah, definitely. Thanks so much. This is amazing!” I say breathlessly. “I … I have to run,” I say, grabbing the notebook. “Thanks again.”

  Worrying about the sketchbook took a bunch of time, and I’m actually five minutes late for detention, which earns me another lecture from Mr. Alpert. But I don’t care. I got my notebook back. There will be no humiliation in front of the whole school. For the first hour, I sit there trying not to look happy. Mr. Alpert has ended up with the privilege of sitting in the empty classroom with me. He looks over occasionally and shakes his head, as if disappointed and shocked that I’m making him waste his time like this.

  But as time drags on, intense boredom sets in. And I can’t stop wondering whether Maya looked in my notebook, and if she saw the pictures of herself. She would have mentioned it, wouldn’t she? She did say something about the cover. I can only hope that she just glanced at it and didn’t actually look through the pictures. Knowing that it’s not getting passed around at lunch today makes me feel like I dodged a huge lava pit.

  By the end of the first day of in-school suspension—which is basically just sitting in an empty classroom with nothing to do—getting in a fight finally starts to feel like a huge mistake. I do my homework within the first few hours, and even get a few days ahead. I thought that not having to listen to teachers drone on would be kind of nice, but by the late afternoon I’m longing to hear the Enchantress talk about putting ourselves into personal essays, the math Gym Leader tell us how to cancel fractions, or even the Dragon roaring about the importance of proper gym clothes.

  And when I go to the bathroom every couple hours, I have to look in the mirror and stare at the big black-and-blue bruise in the middle of my face.

  Sitting in detention, I have an endless expanse of time to think about it. In the end, getting my sketchbook back, having Peter there to help me, not getting my nose completely broken—I really lucked out. It’s only dumb luck that getting in a fight didn’t end in game over. And it hasn’t solved anything. Schmittendorf only hates me more now.

  I spend the next day in the same lockdown, watching Mr. Alpert read a book called Connecting With the Tween Mind. It would be cool, though a bit creepy, if he was learning telepathy, but it’s probably more junk about emotions. I just hope he doesn’t decide to practice on me.

  We have to change rooms periodically to find a new empty one. Walking from one to the other with the Frost Giant looming over me, I can feel the stares of the kids even more strongly. It’s like they installed lasers in their eyes while I was in detention.

  The weekend arriving should be a relief, but when the bell rings and I get up to walk out, Mr. Alpert hands me a thick folder.

  He looks down at me from the thin air up where his head is. “I know that was difficult,” he says slowly, “but I hope you recognize the necessity of punishments to keep our school safe.”

  “Oh, yeah, definitely,” I answer. “I don’t want to go through that again.” And I mean it. The thought of another fight makes my nose throb like it’s going to explode. My hit points are dangerously low.

  On Monday I think the torment will be over, but my life only doubles down on awful. I can see the looks even before I get into the lobby.

  “He was sitting on the bench because of you,” some girl says. I look back at her dumbly.

  A boy spits at me. Well, not at me. In my general direction, from about twenty feet away. But I still shrink inside. What have I done?

  “What are you, on Lancaster’s side?” someone else says.

  “Yeah, where did you say you moved from, anyway?” comes an angry voice from behind me.

  “We only needed one touchdown! And Kevin dropped it!” another guy chimes in. “YOU TOOK AWAY OUR MITTENS!”

  I rush to class, not bothering to stop at my locker and drop my books. It’s one of those levels where there are spikes, lava, cannonballs, and enemies all at the same time.

  As I sit waiting for Ms. Pritchard to start her class, I hear more of them from behind me.

  “It’s his fault,” a girl’s voice hisses. “That Buster kid. Schmittendorf wasn’t there because they got in a fight.”

  “Yeah,” some boy says. “And I heard the new kid started it.”

  I carefully stare forward, pretending not to listen.

  “Mittens would have caught that pass,” the girl says. “He always comes up with it.”

  “Yeah,” the boy agrees. “And that new kid—Jeffery? Jeremy? Without him attacking Mittens, we would have beaten Lancaster.”

  “Biggest game of the year, and this Jeff kid blows it for us.”

  Finally understanding makes my head hurt even more, like one of those traps where the walls close in until they crush you. And these kids who hate me don’t even know my name. Last week there were announcements about a pep rally for the game, and I remember seeing a bunch of boys wearing jerseys on Friday when I walked in to suspension. I forgot about it when I was locked away in the Frost Giant’s Cave of Deprivation.

  No one at my old schools paid much attention to sports. Here they care about football the way I care about a new Zelda game coming out. I’ve seen them in between classes, watching online videos of the players from the high school team and speculating which ones will get recruited by the big colleges.

  Because of the fight, Schmittendorf was in detention and didn’t play in the game on Friday. And it sounds like our team lost to Lancaster by four points. Which, in the twisted and illogical imaginations of the fans, makes me responsible for our team losing.

  Through the day it doesn’t get any better. I can tell from every passing look that kids are judging me. I try to rush through the halls as fast as I can, avoiding eye contact and slumping my shoulders to stay small. But I can still hear the comments.

  In kindergarten they tell you that standing up to a bully will somehow make him leave you alone. Maybe that works when you’re six years old. But even after we both got in trouble, Schmittendorf keeps at it.

  When I get to gym, I walk into the locker room as he is walking out. My whole body tenses for impact, but he just says, “Creep,” and nods at me, a scowl plastered on his face.

  He doesn’t need to do anything, and knows it. The other kids are doing his work for him.

  That day in gym it’s “Creep” this and “Creep” that, and not just from Mittens. Everyone gets in on the action, to the point that even Mr. Barrington tells Stan to cut it out.

  “Stan, give him a break,” Mr. Barrington says when the big linebacker is harassing me, while we’re sitting on the bleachers waiting for our turn. “It was our defense that lost on Friday. Having Mittens wouldn’t have kept Lancaster from scoring three times.”

  Stan glares at me, his lip curling up. I look away, trying to stay calm while my heart flutters like a tin can tied behind a car.

  “Leave him alone,” Maya says from the court. “The receiver dropped that pass, not Josh.”

  Stan grunts in return, but at least he stops talking for a few minutes.

  I’m grateful to Maya for saying something, but it almost makes it worse. Now she sees me as some poor kid who needs her help. Not just in writing, but in life, too.

  I’m sure that makes me an attractive guy. There’s nothing like pity to make a girl think you’re cool.

  When I get home from school that day, I collapse on the couch and don’t move until Mom gets home hours later and leave
s Chinese takeout on the dining room table before heading out to the cell phone store.

  I’m completely drained of energy, but I can’t even get upset about it. Why should I get to be happy, anyway? I should be used to this by now.

  I’m sitting in Mr. Ramirez’s room before class the next day when Peter slides into the desk next to me.

  “Whoa, sweet shirt, man,” he says.

  “Uh, thanks,” I answer. I look down at my chest. It’s my favorite T-shirt, the one with Sonic the Hedgehog running past Mario and Bowser in their Mario Kart go-karts. I love this shirt, but the last couple weeks I haven’t really been paying much attention to what I wear. I just put on whatever’s at the top of the drawer. “Thanks again for helping me,” I add. “If you hadn’t jumped in, my face would have been flattened into 2-D.”

  “Hah, no worries,” Peter says. “Can you believe Mittens missed his big game? It’s just so sweet.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I’m not so sure it’s a good thing for me, but I figure I might as well let the guy be happy.

  “Listen,” Peter says, leaning over. “Chen, Taniko, and I are going to play Smash Bros. at my house after school and need a fourth, want to come?”

  I feel jittery, like that time I “accidentally” downed one of Mom’s triple espressos and couldn’t sleep for thirty hours.

  “Sure, yeah,” I answer. “That would be great.”

  “You realize that we’re, like, ridiculously awesome at it, right?” Peter raises an eyebrow. “I hope you’re more into it than just having that T-shirt you wore the other day.”

  I look him in the eye and nod.

  He sighs with relief. “Good, because I already told Taniko and Chen that we’re going to make them wish they’d never picked up a controller.”

  Before I can reply, Mr. Ramirez asks us to quiet down so that he can start class. I’m a little distracted thinking about which character I’ll pick to be the most impressive in our first game. Should I go for Luigi and play my best, or save it to show off later? Luckily I actually did my homework while I was suspended, so I’m not completely lost. This was one of the units we did in math last spring, at least. It seems like half the time I’m ahead and half the time I’m behind.