Time-Out

by W. C. Mack

  “Except when you’re serving,” Sam said.

  What did that mean?

  “Serving what?”

  “The ball,” Sam said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Wait,” James said, “you’ve never played volleyball either?”

  “Never,” I told them.

  “You’ll be fine,” Sam said, patting me on the back. “It’s all about blocking.”

  And serving, apparently.

  Coach Hernandez had been replaced with Coach Vickers, who was tall and skinny, like me. He had us stretch, warm up with jumping jacks, and run laps before giving us a brief overview of the positions and basics of volleyball.

  I felt like I’d received the CliffsNotes rather than the whole story, but before I could raise my hand with the many questions racing through my mind, he was splitting us up into four teams to play.

  Luckily, Sam was on my team.

  “Where do I go?” I whispered as the four other players on our side of the net moved into position.

  “Middle front’s open,” he said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “In the middle of the front row,” he said, laughing until he saw the expression on my face. “It’s okay, Russ. It’s just a game.”

  I moved to the front and awaited further instructions.

  Bweep!

  I winced, certain I’d be having whistle nightmares for the rest of my life.

  Suddenly, a ball soared over my head. I spun around to see one of the back row players fall to his knees and hit it with his joined wrists.

  “Nice one, Garrett,” Sam said.

  “Set!” the guy next to me shouted and tapped the ball into the air with both hands.

  “Spike it, Russ!” Sam shouted.

  “What?” I asked as the ball hit the floor next to me with a thwack.

  Garrett retrieved the ball and rolled it under the net to the opposing team.

  I turned to ask Sam, “Did you say spike?”

  “Yeah,” he said, then illustrated the move by jumping off the floor and swinging one arm at the air.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  He squinted at me. “Do you have gym class at your school?”

  “Yes,” I assured him. “We played kickball in our last class before break and when I go back, we’ll be doing a couple of weeks of square dancing.”

  “Whoa. Okay, well, this is a real sport. Like an Olympic sport.”

  I took a deep breath and waited for the ball to fly over the net again. This time, it dropped right in front of me.

  “Bump it, Russ,” Sam shouted.

  What happened to the spiking?

  I stumbled in an effort to reach the ball before it hit the floor. Amazingly, I got beneath it and sent it into the air.

  “Good job!” Garrett said.

  In a matter of seconds, my teammates made two hits and the ball bounced against the floor on the opposing side.

  “Yes!” Sam said, slapping me on the back.

  I got into position, but Garrett had moved into my space.

  “Rotate,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You gotta rotate to left front.”

  “But I’m playing center. I mean, middle.”

  Coach Vickers blew his whistle and invited me to the sideline. I attempted to high-five my replacement on the way off the court, but missed.

  “This is pretty new to you, huh?” Coach said.

  “I’ve never played before,” I confessed.

  To my great delight, he handed me a volleyball manual and directed me to the bench. “Assistant Coach Tanaka will go over this with you. I don’t mean to pull you out, but a little tutorial will help. Just twenty minutes or so.”

  “Thank you!” I said, delighted by the opportunity to make some sense of the madness.

  Twenty minutes was a bit optimistic on Coach’s part, but for the next hour and a half, I read and studied diagrams while Coach Tanaka carefully explained what was happening on the court.

  It all started to come together as I read the rules and saw how the game played out right in front of me. I liked the simple math of it. Six players on the team, three hits to send the ball over the net. And the terminology made sense, too.

  Serve, bump, set, spike.

  Repeat.

  “Are you ready to give it a try?” Coach Vickers asked.

  I glanced at the court, then back at the manual. “Would the second session be an okay time to start? I’d like to study this a bit more.”

  “Take your time,” he said, with a smile.

  When we broke for lunch, I hurried to the cafeteria to grab some food for the room.

  “Hey, Russ!” I heard Owen shout from behind me.

  “Hey,” I said, turning to wave.

  “Come and eat with me.”

  “I’m heading up to my room,” I told him, but the disappointed look on his face made me change my mind. I couldn’t give him the cold shoulder forever.

  I waited for him to fill his lunch tray and followed him to the back corner.

  “There are empty tables all over the place, O.”

  “I like it back here.”

  I had the sneaking suspicion he didn’t want to be seen eating with me.

  Typical Owen.

  When we sat down, he poked at his grilled cheese sandwich but didn’t pick it up.

  “Are you okay?” I asked at the exact moment he said, “Still reading that book?”

  “No,” I said, lifting up the volleyball manual so he could see the cover. “I’m studying.”

  “Volleyball.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  I stared at him. “I’m spending two full days in a gymnasium, playing this game, Owen. I’d like to have some idea of how to do it.”

  “Easy. Hit the ball over the net.”

  I smiled. “If only it were that simple. It takes a little more finesse than that. One of the most interesting—”

  “I don’t really want to talk about volleyball,” he interrupted.

  “Oh.” I took a bite of my own grilled cheese. It was almost as good as Mom’s. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he said glumly.

  “Owen.”

  He glanced at me and sighed. “Look, nothing is going the way it’s supposed to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought camp would be . . . different.”

  “Different how? You’re playing basketball every day and sleeping over.”

  “Spending the night,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Sleepovers are for seven-year-olds, Russ.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes, but controlled myself. “What were you expecting? Better coaches?”

  “No, they’re awesome.”

  “More drills? More playing?”

  “No, it’s not that at all.”

  “Can you give me a hint?” I asked, exasperated. Wasting time with twenty questions when I could have been cramming for volleyball was not ideal.

  Finally, he told me, “It’s the guys.”

  “What guys?”

  “All of them,” he said, gesturing toward the rest of the cafeteria tables.

  “What about them?”

  “They’re”—he cleared his throat—“better than I expected.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “I wanted to be one of the best players here. No, the best.”

  “I’m sure you are, Owen.”

  “I’m not,” he said firmly.

  “Okay, but camp isn’t about being the best. It’s about getting better.”

  He smacked his forehead in apparent frustration. “You don’t get it, Russ.”

  I shrugged. “You’re right. I don’t.”

  “These guys don’t even talk to me.”

  “On the court?” I asked, knowing how important communication was at game time. />
  “On it, off it, around it, and nowhere near it.”

  Uh-oh. It was exactly what I’d feared. He’d alienated everyone.

  “Maybe you just got off on the wrong foot,” I said, trying to be as kind as possible. “Give them a chance.”

  “They’re the ones not giving me a chance.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Owen was the social one of the two of us. He was the one who joked around and made friends like it was nothing. He was always surrounded by people and laughter.

  “Maybe you could . . .,” I began, but didn’t know where to go from there. “Maybe—”

  “Never mind,” he said, getting up from the table. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Before I could say anything else, he cleared his tray into the garbage and stalked out of the cafeteria.

  My second session of volleyball was exponentially better than the first. This is not to say that I was an expert, or even particularly adept. It simply means that I understood the game and had a lot of fun playing it.

  Later in the day, Coach lined us up and stood by the net to set the ball so we could take turns spiking.

  My hits weren’t the hardest and I became tangled in the net twice, but I managed to complete the move every time.

  “Nice progress,” Coach Vickers said, lifting his hand for a high five, which I missed.

  “Thank you.”

  “Good job,” Sam said, holding up a fist when I rejoined the line.

  I made one of my own and bumped his, like I’d been doing it for years.

  For the first time in weeks, I held my head high.

  After a delicious chicken dinner and apple pie that evening, T. J. and Big Mike came to our room for the next prank brainstorming session.

  “How about the plastic-wrap doorways?” Big Mike said. “Should we do that one tonight?”

  “I think it’s going to take more planning,” Danny said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Big Mike asked, looking . . . hurt.

  “We don’t have enough wrap,” Danny explained, looking at the rather pitiful single roll T. J. had begged from one of the cafeteria ladies.

  “What about gluing the toilet lids down?” T. J. asked.

  “Where will we go to the bathroom?” I asked him, even though my primary concern was not damaging any of the camp’s property.

  “Good point,” he said, nodding.

  For the first time that I’d seen, he didn’t sniff or twitch. I smiled to myself.

  He must be comfortable around me.

  “We could pull a fire alarm,” Big Mike suggested.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s against the law,” Danny said.

  Big Mike frowned and said, “You know, it would be cool if someday someone waited at least three seconds before shutting me down.”

  “What?” Danny asked, obviously confused.

  “Never mind,” he grunted. “Nobody takes me seriously.”

  Danny looked at me, then at T. J.

  “I take you seriously,” T. J. said, shrugging.

  “Yeah, on the basketball court, maybe. But I’m nobody when the game’s over.”

  “What are you talking about?” Danny asked.

  He shook his head with frustration. “I’m just . . . Big Mike. The guy everyone wants on their team. The giant who intimidates people. Nobody gives me any credit for anything else, like having a brain.”

  The room was filled with stunned silence. When I realized that no one else was going to say anything, I cleared my throat.

  “Well, I happen to think you were onto something with alarms.”

  “Whatever,” Big Mike muttered.

  “Not fire alarms,” I said, glancing at the Hoopsters-issued stopwatch on Danny’s desk. “But another kind might be a brilliant idea.”

  “What?” they all asked at once.

  I reached for the gadget. “This is a clock, correct?”

  Danny nodded. “And a stopwatch.”

  “Can it be set to sound intermittently?”

  “Inter-what-ent-ly?” Big Mike asked, sounding just like Owen.

  Owen!

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, jumping off my bed and heading for my brother’s room.

  I rapped my knuckles against his door several times.

  “What’s going on?” he asked when he finally opened it.

  “Come with me. I need your help.”

  “What for?” His tone was suspicious.

  “Just come with me,” I said, pulling his arm.

  When we walked into my room together, the four boys stared at us.

  “This is my brother, Owen,” I said.

  “No way,” T. J. murmured.

  “Owen, this is T. J. and Big Mike.”

  “We’ve met,” Big Mike muttered, shooting Owen a dirty look.

  When I glanced at the others, I saw that they were all doing the same. Even Danny.

  “Listen,” I told them. “You think I’m a mastermind, but that title should really go to Owen.”

  “Whatever,” T. J. said with a triple-twitch of the nose.

  “Whatever, yourself,” Owen snapped. “I’m out of here.” He started to turn toward the door.

  “Wait,” I said, holding his arm. “I have a plan for a prank, and I need your help.”

  “A prank?” Owen asked, looking interested despite himself.

  And while I had everyone’s attention, I laid it out for them.

  When I was finished, the room was silent for a few seconds before Danny said, “I like it!”

  “Okay,” T. J. said, “so, we get our hands on a bunch of stopwatches and set them to go off every twenty minutes.”

  “Or thirty, or an hour,” I said. “Whatever we decide.”

  “And they drive people crazy by beeping?”

  “Three beeps every time it goes off,” Danny said, nodding. “That would make anyone crazy.”

  “Wait,” Big Mike interrupted. “It’ll only go off once before they find it and turn it off.”

  “Good point,” I said, causing Big Mike to smile.

  “So?” Danny asked.

  I glanced at Owen. “That’s where he comes in.”

  I didn’t even have to tell my brother what I needed. He was already walking around the room, inspecting every corner and piece of furniture.

  “We could clip it high on the curtains,” he said thoughtfully, “but that would be way too easy to find.” The rest of the guys watched him peruse the bed with interest. “In between the mattress and the box spring would take a little more time.”

  “That’s a good one,” Danny murmured.

  Owen looked up at the ceiling. “Hmm. Anybody got a screwdriver?”

  I looked at the upturned faces and noticed something wonderful.

  They were all smiling.

  When we were ready to pull off the alarm prank (which was awesome), Russ’s roommate, Danny, thought the six of us should split into pairs to get the job done quickly.

  “Oh, I’m not going,” Russ said.

  “But it was your idea,” Danny reminded him.

  “I realize that, but—”

  “Me, Danny, and T. J. will go together,” Big Mike said, “and the twins can be a team.” He said the word twins like he didn’t believe it was true.

  “No, I was—” Russ started to say, but I cut him off.

  “Live a little,” I told him, then looked at the rest of the group. “Let’s do this!”

  Russ and I headed for the lower floor, where we started knocking on doors to see which rooms were empty. If someone answered, we asked if “Chris” was there, then “realized” we were at the wrong room. If no one answered, in we went.

  I couldn’t believe our luck after the first three rooms. Almost all of the guys had left their stopwatches right on their desks, to be used as an alarm clock.

  It was perfect.

  As I hid the stopwatches in totally sneaky places, I had to admit I was impressed that Russ had come up with such a cool prank.


  And I was even more impressed that he’d invited me to be in on it.

  It wasn’t just because I had certain skills when it came to that kind of thing. Russ knew I was lonely and he’d done something about it. Even though I was a little embarrassed to be depending on him to get me in with the cool kids, I was grateful, too.

  For the next half hour or so, we kept setting timers for twenty-minute intervals (Russ’s word) and hid them in different spots in every room. The other guys wanted to pick one spot, but I knew that once one kid figured out where the beeping was coming from, he’d tell everyone else and the prank would be over.

  So, I stashed them in the toes of sneakers, the backs of closets, on top of curtain rods, and, my personal favorite, inside light fixtures.

  I had a total blast!

  On the way back to Russ’s room, where we were all supposed to meet at seven o’clock, I was still thinking about the fact that none of the guys had given me the time of day before Russ invited me to join in. And now? We were hanging out.

  I watched my brother walk ahead of me and my heart felt kind of full and swollen.

  “Hey, Russ,” I whispered.

  “Yes?” he asked, over his shoulder.

  I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

  “What for?” he asked, stopping in his tracks and giving me a confused look.

  I looked him straight in the eye for a few seconds, so he’d know I was serious. “Thank you.”

  My twin’s face turned red. “No problem.”

  Once we were back in the room, all five of us laughed and high-fived, happy to have pulled it off.

  “How many did you get?” T. J. asked.

  “Eleven,” I told him, hoping we’d done the most.

  “No way! That’s awesome.”

  “What was your best spot?” Big Mike asked, smiling at me for the first time ever.

  I had to think about it for a second. “I taped one to the ductwork in a heat register. Far enough down so you can’t see it in the darkness.”

  “Dude, you’re the man!” he said, raising his hand for a fist bump.

  I totally agreed.

  I was the man.

  In the morning, I was still smiling about the prank. I rolled out of bed, grabbing my towel and the bag Mom loaded with all my shampoo and junk.

  I whistled all the way to the bathroom, happy that things were turning around.

  I found a sink next to a tired-looking kid, brushing his teeth.