by Phil Bildner
Diego nodded along. “That’s tight.”
“This is such a bad idea,” I said. “We’re going to get in so much trouble for this.”
“No, we’re not,” Tiki said.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snapped. “We’re not allowed to have cell phones, and before you say the camera isn’t a cell phone, we’re using it like a cell-phone camera, and that’s exactly how the kids last year got…”
I didn’t finish. Red’s fists were tapping his cheeks, and his knees were bouncing against the table.
I let out a puff and looked from Avery to Diego. “I can’t believe you’re going along with this.”
“Listen, Rip.” Tiki held out her hands. “I’m the new girl, she’s in a wheelchair, you’re the teacher’s pet, he’s—”
“I’m not the teacher’s pet,” I said, cutting her off.
“Okay.” Tiki snort-laughed. “You’re not the teacher’s pet. You’re Mr. Perfect.” She winked at Diego. “He’s the cutie pie with the doggy hat. Red’s Red. We’re the good kids. I’ve been to so many schools. I know how this works. We’re not getting in trouble. Now, who’s down with Operation Food Fight?”
Clean or Dirty?
“Which is it?” Mom asked, holding up my red basketball shorts. “Clean or dirty?”
“Dirty,” I said.
She dropped them onto the pile of clothes by my door. “What about these?” She held up my blue-and-white-striped boxers.
“Dirty.”
I was sitting on my bed with my back against the wall, shooting my Nerf into the air. I was practicing my form—spreading my fingers, relaxing my wrist, holding my follow-through, watching the rotation—as we sorted the clothes that had taken over my room.
Or should I say, as Mom sorted the clothes.
“What about this shirt?” She sniffed my ThunderCats tee and tossed it onto the pile before I could answer. Then she grabbed the folded sheets off the floor. “Rip, is this the clean bedding I gave you on Sunday?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes?”
I smiled. “Uh-huh.”
Mom doesn’t like it when I say “yeah” or “uh-huh.” She doesn’t like it when I nod instead of speaking either.
She put the sheets on my worktable and plucked the Nerf out of the air. “Until all this is sorted,” she said, pointing the ball at the clothes by my closet and then at the heap on the chair beside my bed, “and at least three loads are washed, dried, folded, and put away, there’s no password.”
“That’s so not fair,” I half whined.
“No, this isn’t fair.” She pointed again. “No password.”
That’s Mom’s new thing. She changes the Wi-Fi password and holds it hostage. She learned this strategy from one of the teachers at her school. Mom’s the principal at River West, a public middle school in a district a few towns over.
“We can put the first load in together,” she said.
“C’mon, Mom.”
“We can do it tomorrow instead of going to basketball, if you like.” She flipped the ball onto my bed. “Rip, this shows no responsibility whatsoever.”
“Is this where you say I’m not ready for a dog?”
“Looks like I don’t have to.”
I reached for the Nerf. “Irving for three,” I announced as I shot the ball at the hoop above my closet. “Splash! Nothing but net.”
“So tell me more about the new girl,” Mom said. “What’s her name?”
“Tiki.”
When I’d gotten home from school yesterday, I told Mom we had a new girl in class, but of course, she already knew. Lesley Irving knows about everything at RJE. All the parents know she’s a principal, so they’re always emailing and texting her questions or asking her for school advice. Mom doesn’t mind because it keeps her in the loop.
Sometimes a little too much in the loop, if you ask me.
“She says the weirdest things,” I said.
“How so?”
“She just does.”
“Honey, you’re going to have to explain yourself a little better than that.” Mom picked up the laundry basket from the floor.
“She likes to make up her own words. She has her own vocabulary.”
Mom held out the basket and nodded to the compression socks and T-shirts on my pillow. “She’s just trying to fit in.”
“By making up her own language?” I scooped up the clothes and dropped them in. “She said she’s been to eight schools, but I don’t believe her. No one moves around that much.”
“Honey, the population around here is much more transient than it used to be. Kids are coming and going all the time. You see that.”
“I know.” I grabbed my purple teddy bear by the arm and pulled him onto my knee.
“I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for her.” She placed the basket on my worktable and sat down on the bed. “That poor girl.”
“She’s from Egypt.”
Mom flicked a piece of lint out of my hair.
I ducked away. “She said that whenever her family moves, her dad shaves his beard so people won’t act weird around him in airports.”
“Such a shame.” She reached behind her and pulled a book out from between the mattress and the wall. “You looking for this?”
“There it is.”
A Wrinkle in Time.
I had started reading it for Choice, but I stopped after a few chapters. A Wrinkle in Time is one of those books we’re supposed to like, but I didn’t. I couldn’t get into it. But then Mr. Acevedo gave me the graphic novel version, and let me tell you, even though I’m a slo-mo reader, I was blowing through it. I was already up to the part where they go into the central intelligence building.
“This book is always getting banned,” Mom said, fanning the pages. “Someone somewhere is always trying to keep it out of the hands of kids.”
“That’s why I wanted to read it.”
I love reading books that grown-ups don’t want kids to read. But the thing is, after I read them, I never really understand why they don’t want us to read them.
“Let’s get started on this laundry.” Mom swatted my leg with the book. “So you can go to basketball tomorrow.”
The Strategy
Tweet! Tweet!
“Let’s circle up, Clifton United,” Coach Acevedo said at the beginning of practice the next day. “Time for a little speech.”
Tweet! Tweet!
“I’m usually not a big fan of talking at practices,” he said, once everyone had gathered under the hoop by the stage. “I much prefer practicing at practice. But before we get started today, I need about three minutes.” He waved the magazine he was holding. “Thanks to Tiki over here, I did some homework.”
Red’s hand shot up. “You’re not a big fan of homework, Coach Acevedo,” he said.
“No, I’m not, Red. But I am a big fan of learning on our own. We always need to be curious.”
“Be curious,” Red whispered.
“I read about that math strategy Tiki mentioned.”
“My old team’s strategy!” She held up her hands and pushed her hip out to the side. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” She bowed several times.
“I also watched that sports show Red mentioned.”
“Oh, yeah!” Red hopped.
“We’ve got some serious talent on this squad,” Coach Acevedo said, “but so do the teams we’ll be facing. In fact, some of our opponents are loaded. So after crunching some numbers, I’ve decided this unorthodox strategy just may give Clifton United our best shot at winning, and if you don’t know what unorthodox means, look it up when you get home.”
I was pretty sure I knew what unorthodox meant: unusual.
Coach Acevedo opened to the article. “This gentleman right here knew next to nothing about basketball.” He pointed to a photograph of a man wearing a suit. “But he understood mathematics. So he came up with a strategy based on the mathematics of basketball. And it worked.”<
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“It worked for my team, too,” Tiki said.
“You told us,” I muttered.
“Now, we’re not following his strategy step by step,” Coach Acevedo continued, “but we are going to use his approach as our model. We’re going to force turnovers, make layups, and run our opponents out of the gym. Like I said Monday, everyone on Clifton United will need to contribute this season.”
“I like the way that sounds!” Tiki shouted.
I like the way that sounds.
I grabbed the locks above my neck. That’s what I’d said on Monday. Exactly what I’d said.
Tweet! Tweet!
“Let’s get running.”
Sprinting
Clifton United stood on the baseline and waited for the next whistle. We were running up-and-backs. That’s what the drill was called. On my select team, we called it by a different name, but Coach Acevedo didn’t like that name.
“I want to see everyone running like Rip this time,” he said.
Running like Rip.
I liked the way that sounded. Make that, I loved the way that sounded.
As soon as Coach had finished his talk, I shifted right into firing-on-all-cylinders-revved-up basketball mode. No way was anyone beating me today. No way.
Tweet! Tweet!
We burst from the baseline.
Sprint to the foul line. Sprint back.
Sprint to half-court. Sprint back.
Sprint to the far foul line. Sprint back.
Sprint to the other baseline. Sprint back.
I finished first.
Again.
“One more time!” Coach Acevedo shouted. “Run like Rip.”
Tweet! Tweet!
I was running like Rip, too. Like Rip Hamilton. He played for the Detroit Pistons back in the day. He was known as the Running Man. That’s how I got my nickname. Mom says I run around like the Energizer Bunny. I had to YouTube the Energizer Bunny to know what she was talking about.
I finished first.
Again.
“Last set!” Coach Acevedo called. “We go hard!”
Tweet! Tweet!
I won again. Undefeated.
“You can’t lose, Mason Irving!” Red panted. “You’re Clifton United’s up-and-back running machine!” He held out his fist.
I swatted it with my fingers and then clasped my hands behind my head and took long breaths. “We definitely need a new handshake.”
“Keep pushing your teammates, Rip,” Coach Acevedo said as we lined up for the next drill. “Keep setting the tone. Lead the way.”
Fine by me.
The next conditioning drill was the zigzag drill. Last season when we tried running this, instead of pivoting and sliding the length of the court, Clifton United stumbled over the mini-cones, knocked one another down, and ran in every direction but the correct one. Before we started today, Coach Acevedo showed us what the drill looked like on his iPad.
“We run this drill in defensive stances, pivoting and sliding,” he explained.
Everyone said they knew what to do, but I could tell everyone didn’t. So it was time to lead the way. Just like Coach Acevedo wanted. It was …
“I see you, Rip,” Tiki said, lining up behind me. She blew a bubble and popped it. “I’m coming for you.”
“What?” I made a face. I still couldn’t believe Coach Acevedo was letting her chew gum during practice.
“I’m coming for you.” She pointed two fingers at her eyes and then pointed them at me. “I’m passing you.”
I looked around. She had me on blast. Everyone heard.
“That’s not what this drill is about,” I said. “You’re not supposed to pass me.”
“Then don’t let me.” She snort-laughed again.
No way was she passing me. No way.
Tweet! Tweet!
She didn’t pass me. Just like I said she wouldn’t.
“Way to set the tone out there, Rip,” Coach Acevedo said. “Way to lead the way.”
Short and Sweet
During outdoor recess the next day, Red and I came up with our handshake.
“You ready?” I asked, taking off my hoodie.
Red took off his. “Ready as I’ll ever be, Mason Irving,” he said.
Roll the arms and dance to the left.
Roll the arms and dance to the right.
Slap hands with the right.
Slap hands with the left.
Jumping hip bump.
Then on the landing …
“Boo-yah!”
“Short and sweet,” I said.
“Short and sweet, Mason Irving!’’
Last season, our handshake had fourteen steps. This season, we were going with short and sweet.
“One more time?” I said.
“Oh, yeah!”
Pizza and Pushing the Envelope
I placed A Wrinkle in Time on my chest, leaned back in the bathtub, and looked around the classroom.
Like always during Choice, everyone was reading.
The OMG girls sat on the couch, their legs woven together like they were playing Twister.
Avery was parked underneath the writing-binders shelf by the door.
Red, Xander, Hunter, Declan, Danny, and Zachary had the beanbag chairs. They sat in the corner by the YO! READ THIS! board, next to where Mr. Acevedo had posted the QR codes for the classroom iPads that linked to the author websites and book trailers for the recommended titles.
Mr. Acevedo was reading, too. He sat on the windowsill behind his desk, wearing his DO NOT DISTURB sign.
I checked the board and reread the message that had been waiting for us when we walked in:
I hoped the first course on the menu would be the longest. I lifted the book off my chest and went back to Meg, Charles Wallace, and Calvin.
* * *
“Let’s put away our reading and head to the meeting area,” Mr. Acevedo said about twenty minutes later.
I popped out of the tub like a jack-in-the-box, flung my book in the direction of my desk (it slid off and landed on the floor), and dashed for the couch. I snagged the middle seat between Red and Attie.
“Let’s talk about lunch,” Mr. Acevedo said after everyone had settled in. He sat cross-legged in his spot on the carpet. “Today’s pizza day.”
“Tuesday’s pizza day,” I said, correcting him.
“So is today,” Olivia said. “Weren’t you listening during announcements?”
No, I wasn’t. I never listen to the announcements, and the only time I check the announcement monitor in the main hall is when one of my friends is on it or it’s showing a sports clip.
“Pizza with grilled chicken topping, mixed vegetable medley, chilled tropical fruit, and salad,” Red said, reciting the menu.
“Pizza Darling!” I said, suddenly remembering that Tuesday’s lunch had been named after the principal.
“More like Pizza Disgusting,” Avery said. “That pizza is friggin’ foul.”
“You’re telling me,” Noah said, wiping the side of his mouth with his palm.
“So we’re really having leftovers for lunch today,” Hunter said.
“I didn’t bring my lunch.” Avery squeezed her brakes. “What am I going to eat?”
“You have to do something about this, Mr. A.,” Danny said.
Mr. Acevedo grabbed his ankles. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get them to serve us real pizza,” Declan said. “Use some magic food powers, Teach.”
“I’m with Avery,” Olivia said. “If I’d known about the menu change, I would’ve brought my lunch.”
“Same,” Miles said.
“Me, too.” Piper nodded.
“You know things are bad when kids won’t eat the pizza on pizza days.” Mr. Acevedo chuckled. He tucked his hair behind his ears. “But if you don’t like the way things are—”
“Why is pizza day on Tuesday?” Tiki interrupted.
“Not sure.” Mr. Acevedo regrabbed his ankles and looked bac
k at Miles and Piper. “If you don’t like the way things are, do something about it. Figure out a way to express your dissatisfaction constructively.”
“How?” Piper asked.
“I’m not the one who’s dissatisfied.”
“At all my old schools,” Tiki said, “pizza days were always on Friday.”
“One thing you can do is gather some evidence,” Mr. Acevedo said. “Get some proof. Maybe keep a count of how many kids are bringing lunch on pizza days. Or track the amount of pizza being thrown away. Come up with numbers. Share it.”
Gather some evidence. Get some proof. Share it.
I checked Avery and Diego, seated beside the bathtub. I could tell they were thinking the same thing. It was almost as if Mr. Acevedo was giving us permission to do Operation Food Fight. Almost.
“The new food service got rid of the composting bins,” Olivia said. “They need to bring them back.”
“Especially on pizza days,” Avery added.
Last year, the Lunch Bunch had us sort our trash. There were three huge bins in the cafeteria—one for landfill garbage like plastic bags, foam cups, and wrappers; one for recyclables like metal, glass, plastic, and milk cartons; and one for food scraps. There was also a red bucket where we had to pour out milk. At first, it was a pain, but after a few days, it wasn’t at all.
This year, garbage, recyclables, and food scraps all went into the same can.
“I’m serious about this,” Mr. Acevedo said. “Figure out ways to express your dissatisfaction. Sometimes we need to push the—”
“We should get them to move pizza day,” Tiki interrupted again.
“One mic, Tiki,” Mr. Acevedo said with an edge. He held up a finger. “Remember what I told you the other day. We speak with one mic in Room 208. We don’t cut people off.”
Tiki covered her mouth with both hands. “Sorry,” she said through her fingers.
“It’s okay.” Mr. Acevedo nodded once. “As I was saying, sometimes in order to effect change, you have to push the envelope.”
“The envelope?” Red said. “What envelope?”
“It’s an expression, Red,” Mr. Acevedo answered before I did. “An idiom. If you don’t know what an idiom is, look it up. And if you don’t know what pushing the envelope means, look that up, too.”