Bat and the Waiting Game

by Elana K. Arnold

  Mr. Grayson pulled up in his dusty orange coupe and unfolded himself from its front seat. “Hey, Bat!” he said. “Are you waiting for me?”

  “No,” said Bat.

  Mr. Grayson smiled, as if Bat had said something funny.

  “Hi, Dr. Tam,” he said to Bat’s mom.

  “Good morning, Mr. Grayson,” she answered, and she put her hand on Bat’s shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.

  “Good morning, Mr. Grayson,” Bat said, remembering to be polite, but he was craning his neck to see around his teacher, who was blocking his view of the parking lot entrance. Mr. Grayson’s puffy orange vest looked like a traffic sign.

  “Well,” said Mr. Grayson, “I’ll see you inside.” He smiled again, and then finally he went into the building.

  At last, Israel’s dad’s truck pulled into the parking lot. Israel’s dad had the tallest, cleanest, shiniest truck Bat had ever seen in real life. Even the hubcaps shined.

  Israel’s dad waved at Bat and his mom as Israel hopped out of the passenger seat.

  “Hey, Bat!” said Israel. He slammed the door and his dad drove away, the loud rumble of his truck fading.

  “Do you want to be my partner for the spring project and research growing a skunk garden for Thor?” Bat didn’t mean to yell right in Israel’s face, but he had waited for so long that the words practically burst out of him.

  “Sure! That sounds fun!” Israel grinned.

  “Okay,” said Bat. Then he turned to Mom. “Tell Laurence that Thor drank a bottle and a half for breakfast,” he said. Laurence helped take care of the skunk kit during the day, when Bat was at school.

  “I will,” Mom said, and she bent down to give Bat a hug. “You boys have a great day.”

  Bat followed Israel through the school’s front door. The hallway was almost empty because class was about to start. There were just a few kids and Miss Kiko outside the kindergarten classroom, holding the copper bell she rang each morning to announce the start of school.

  “Thanks for waiting for me,” Israel said. “We were running late because Dad couldn’t find the keys to his truck. He usually leaves them in a little dish by the front door, but—”

  “We’ll have to research what kinds of plants skunks like to eat,” Bat interrupted. “Skunks are omnivores, which means they eat plants and animals, but I don’t really know what kinds of plants taste the best to a skunk.”

  “Bat,” Israel said, “I was telling you about why we were late!”

  “You weren’t late,” Bat said. “You were almost late.” And then he went into Mr. Grayson’s class, before Miss Kiko rang the bell and they really would be late.

  CHAPTER 6

  Carrot Division

  There wasn’t any time to visit Babycakes before class began. Usually the first thing Bat did when he entered Mr. Grayson’s classroom was head straight to the back to check on the class pet. Babycakes, a fluffy angora puffball of a bunny, usually didn’t respond to Bat’s gentle cooing; she’d just sit atop her plastic hutch inside her pen and look stoically adorable.

  But today Bat had brought a carrot from home to feed to Babycakes, and she would always hop over for a carrot. If he hadn’t been waiting outside of school for Israel to arrive, Bat would have had plenty of time to give the carrot to Babycakes. As it was, he would have to wait for recess.

  Bat sighed as he slid into his chair, hanging his backpack over the back of the seat. The carrot, zipped into his backpack, seemed almost to vibrate with its desire to be fed to Babycakes.

  Mr. Grayson was standing at the front of the room, talking about something. Bat saw his mouth moving but was having a very hard time concentrating on the words. Something about math. All around Bat, kids reached into their backpacks to pull out their folders, so Bat did, too.

  There was the carrot, wrapped in a cloth napkin that was printed with little carrots and radishes and turnips. Bat retrieved his folder, but he grabbed the napkin-wrapped carrot, too.

  Mr. Grayson’s back was to the class. He was writing math problems on the whiteboard with his favorite orange marker.

  It would only take a minute to walk to the back of the class and feed the carrot to Babycakes. Maybe Mr. Grayson wouldn’t even turn back around until Bat had gone to Babycakes’s enclosure, fed her the carrot, and returned to his seat.

  And after all, Bat reasoned, Mr. Grayson had said that the class had an “open-door Babycakes policy,” meaning that any time a kid needed to cuddle, he or she could go visit Babycakes, no permission needed, no questions asked. Bat didn’t actually need to cuddle, but he had an itchy feeling that Babycakes needed the carrot, and he knew that the itchy feeling wouldn’t go away until he did something about it.

  So he unwrapped the carrot and pushed back his chair as quietly as he could. He tiptoed to the back of the class, ignoring the stares from Jenny and Lucca, and reached into the pen to feed the carrot to Babycakes.

  Her twitchy nose twitched at the carrot, and Babycakes jumped down from her perch atop the plastic hutch and hopped over to Bat.

  Silently, Bat held the carrot as Babycakes nibbled at it. She took little bites and chewed them quickly, her white face vibrating with joy.

  “Bat,” said Mr. Grayson’s voice from just behind Bat’s left shoulder. Bat jumped, startled, and his quick movement scared Babycakes, who darted into her hutch, just her fluffy tail sticking out.

  “You made me scare Babycakes!” Bat said.

  “She’ll recover,” Mr. Grayson said. “Do you think you could save the rest of her carrot until break? We are starting math time.”

  “I need to make sure Babycakes isn’t upset,” Bat said. “You can’t just startle someone and not apologize.” It occurred to Bat that maybe Mr. Grayson owed him an apology, for the same reason, but Mr. Grayson didn’t offer one.

  “Okay, Bat,” Mr. Grayson said, but he didn’t leave; he stood there waiting for Bat to go back to his seat.

  Bat sighed. “Sorry, Babycakes,” he said in his gentlest voice. Then he broke the carrot into three smaller pieces and set the pieces softly down inside the bunny’s enclosure before he went back to his seat. Dividing one carrot into three parts: that, Bat thought, should count as math for the day.

  CHAPTER 7

  Good News and Bad News

  After school, Bat and Mom were sitting at the kitchen table having a snack of sliced apples and cheddar cheese, waiting for Janie to get home. Bat liked to stack two slices of apple with one piece of cheese in between. It made for the perfect ratio of crunchiness and mushy saltiness. Thor was tucked into the sling around Bat’s neck, but the little guy was rustling around more than usual, making the stacking procedure difficult.

  “He’s getting bigger,” Mom said. “He’s not quite a baby anymore. He’s more like a toddler, and toddlers have lots of energy.”

  “What did you do with me when I was a toddler?” Bat asked.

  “I made sure you got lots of exercise so you’d sleep at night,” Mom answered.

  Bat thought about this as he bit into his slightly crooked apple-cheese-apple sandwich. Thor needed more exercise. And as his caretaker, Bat’s job was to make that happen.

  “Maybe I’ll build an obstacle course,” Bat said, thinking out loud.

  The front door slammed open, and Bat heard the stomping of two sets of feet coming down the hallway toward the kitchen. Janie and Ezra. He could tell it was them by the sound of their stomping—Janie’s run was a sort of skip-hop sound, short quick steps close together. Ezra’s was louder and more regular, and right behind Janie’s.

  “Guess what!” Janie yelled, bursting into the kitchen. Her cheeks were bright red from running, and her hair, which had been curly that morning, hung in limp ringlets around her face.

  “You got the part of the queen in Alice in Wonderland,” Bat said.

  “Ba-at,” Janie whined. “You ruined my news.”

  “You said to guess,” said Bat.

  “It was just an expression,” said Ezra. He r
eached out and took an apple slice off Bat’s plate, without even asking first. Bat pulled his plate a little closer. “Hi, Dr. Tam,” Ezra said.

  “Hello, Ezra,” said Mom, and then to Janie, “Honey, that is wonderful news! Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” said Janie, shrugging out of her backpack and letting it drop to the floor by the back door. “I am so excited! Rehearsals start tomorrow after school.”

  “Tomorrow?” said Mom. “But tomorrow is Tuesday.”

  “We have rehearsal after school every day for the next three weeks,” Janie said.

  “Oh,” Mom said. “Well, that throws a monkey wrench in our schedule.”

  Bat knew that Mom was using an expression, and that there wasn’t really a wrench shaped like a monkey. But it felt satisfying when he imagined one, anyway.

  “Usually you take care of Bat Tuesdays and Thursdays until I get home,” Mom said.

  “You’re not going to tell me I can’t do the play, are you?” Janie’s voice was getting louder and higher, like the teakettle when it was just about to boil. “Because that would be totally unfair!”

  “No, no, of course not,” Mom said. “We’ll work something out.” Then she stood up and hugged Janie. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. “Be sure to call your dad and tell him the good news. He’ll be thrilled! Now, Ezra, would you like an apple of your own?”

  Ezra, whose hand had been reaching out toward Bat’s plate again, said, “Sure, Dr. Tam. And some cheese, too?”

  Later that day, after Ezra had gone home, after dinner and dishes and Thor’s bedtime feeding, when Bat was brushing his teeth, Mom came into the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

  “Bat,” she said, “I want to ask you a question.”

  Bat hated it when people talked to him when he couldn’t answer. Worst of all was at the dentist’s, when he had his mouth wide open and the dentist’s rubber-gloved hands were in his mouth, and then she’d ask, “So, Bat, what grade are you in?” or “What’s your favorite hobby these days, Bat?” and there was no way he could answer without biting her fingers.

  Right now there weren’t any fingers in his mouth, but there was a cheekful of foamy toothpaste. Bat spat it out and rinsed his mouth and then said, “What?”

  “Your sister is going to be busy on Tuesdays and Thursdays for the next few weeks,” Mom said, “and so we’re going to have to change our schedule.”

  “I know,” said Bat. “You’re going to have to come home earlier.”

  “Well, no,” Mom said. “I can’t do that.”

  “Then I could come to the clinic,” Bat said. “I could help Laurence.”

  “It’s nice to have you at the clinic now and then,” Mom said, “but maybe not quite that much. Also, you’ll have your spring project to be working on.”

  And then she told Bat that she’d talked to Israel’s dad, and that he had said that Bat could come over to their house for a few hours after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, until Janie’s play was over.

  “You could ride home with them, they’d give you a snack, and you and Israel could work on your project. How does that sound?”

  It sounded great—for exactly three seconds, until Bat remembered Thor.

  “Can I bring Thor with me?” Bat asked.

  “Oh, Bat,” Mom answered. “I think that would be too much to ask of Israel’s dad. Thor will have to stay with me at the clinic. Laurence will take care of him.”

  “That sounds like a terrible idea,” Bat said. “Tell Janie she can’t do the play.”

  “Bat,” Mom said. “That doesn’t seem fair, does it? And it’s just for a couple of hours, only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and only for a few weeks. We can do this, Bat, can’t we?”

  Bat thrust his toothbrush back in the holder and wiped his mouth with the hand towel. He remembered something Mom sometimes said to him and turned to her. “Just because we can do something,” he said, “doesn’t mean we should.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Kitchens

  There were some terrible things about Bat’s new after-school schedule:

  1.The extra time away from Thor.

  2.The uncomfortable feeling of going to a new place, itching Bat like the heat rash he sometimes got on summer’s hottest days.

  3.The inconvenience of being away from his very own home, his perfectly comfortable room.

  But, Bat had to admit the next afternoon, staring up at Israel’s dad’s massive, rumbling black truck, the ride wasn’t one of them.

  Bat had never been in such an interesting vehicle. Mom drove a perfectly average station wagon, and Dad had an uncomfortably tight sports car, with a hump in the middle of the back instead of a seat.

  Israel’s dad’s truck was totally different. It was like seeing a Great Dane after a lifetime of Chihuahuas. It was the ostrich of the car world: impressively large.

  Tuesday’s school day had ended, and when Bat and Israel walked out of the building to the pickup line, Bat immediately spotted the truck.

  “I think that’s the coolest truck I’ve ever seen,” Bat said to Israel.

  “I didn’t know you cared about trucks,” Israel said.

  “Neither did I,” said Bat.

  “Hi, boys,” said Israel’s dad through the open window as he pulled up to the front of the line. He leaned over and unlocked the passenger-side door. “Hop in!”

  The truck was so tall that Bat had to use the chrome bar that ran beneath the door to step up and climb in. Standing on the bar, peering into the cab of the truck, Bat found himself at a loss for words. It had never, ever occurred to Bat to care the least bit about a vehicle. He liked fur and feathers and scales, teeth and claws and tails.

  The truck was just chrome and paint and rubber and steel, but somehow it felt alive, and peering into its cab was like looking into the heart of a dragon.

  “I like your truck, Mr. Zimmerman,” Bat said.

  “Thank you, Bat,” he answered. “Call me Tom.”

  “Tom,” Bat said, half to himself, as Israel’s dad pulled forward the front passenger seat so the boys could climb onto the narrow rear bench. It had, Bat noticed with satisfaction, three seat belts. He plopped himself happily in the center seat, latched his belt, and said to Tom, “Tell me everything about this truck.”

  By the time they pulled into Israel’s driveway ten minutes later, Bat knew the difference between a V-8 and a V-6 engine, he knew what a drivetrain was and why it was better to have four-wheel drive than two-wheel drive, he knew that Tom’s truck could tow up to twelve thousand pounds (“give or take a few,” Tom said), and he knew with 99 percent surety (because that was as sure as you could be about anything) that one day he would drive a truck exactly like Israel’s dad’s.

  Tom put the car in park and turned it off. “Here we are,” he said, which normally would have prompted Bat to say something about how that was the kind of statement that really didn’t mean anything, because it’s always true—you could always say “Here we are,” no matter where you were, and you’d be right. But Bat didn’t point that out, this time.

  “Thank you for driving us,” he said instead, remembering his manners, like Mom had told him to try to do.

  “Anytime,” Tom answered. And then he said, “You’re a cool kid, Bat.”

  That was definitely the first time anyone had ever called Bat “cool.”

  Bat followed Israel into the house, putting his backpack on the kitchen counter next to where Israel set his.

  Bat looked around as Israel slammed open the pantry and rustled through it, looking for a snack. It was a very different kitchen than the two kitchens Bat was most used to. His kitchen at home had mostly empty countertops tiled in plain white squares. There was a bowl of fruit and a toaster, and that was about it. Everything else Mom kept put away; as she said, “habit from keeping a clean operating room.” The kitchen at Dad’s apartment was pretty empty, too, but for a different reason: he had only lived in the apartment for a year and a half, and h
e didn’t really have much stuff.

  Israel’s kitchen would have made a terrible operating room. The countertops were blue, but it was hard to tell under all the stacks of colorful ceramic bowls and cups and plates that were piled all over them. The walls were light yellow, but it was hard to tell under the pictures that were hanging—some framed, some loose taped-up sketches—all over them.

  Israel emerged from the pantry with a bag of pistachio nuts, a box of cereal, and a chocolate bar. “Do you want a snack?” he said to Bat, the first words he’d spoken since they’d left school. “Or do you just want to go hang out with my dad some more?”

  The chocolate bar looked delicious. “Snack, please,” Bat said.

  CHAPTER 9

  Bowls

  Bat had never eaten a bowl of cereal without milk before, but Israel poured half the box into a big gray-and-pink bowl and then poured a bunch of pistachios into a slightly smaller green bowl with swirly blue curlicues all over it. Then he put away the cereal box and the bag of pistachios, told Bat, “Grab the chocolate bar,” and headed out into the backyard.

  Bat, chocolate bar in hand, followed him.

  “Wow,” he said, standing in the doorway, looking into the yard. Israel was placing the two fancy bowls full of snacks on a table underneath a big shade tree, but that was the least interesting thing happening in the yard.

  Bat counted eleven pinwheel wind spinners planted in the garden beds all around the yard. Some had bits of colored glass suspended in webs of metal; others were all metal, but a mix of copper and silver. Big, bright glass orbs were tucked everywhere, glints of shiny color under the tree, lining the path through the yard that ended at a garden shed.

  The shade tree’s branches were heavy with stained-glass ornaments and wind chimes that filled the air with silvery tinkles and deep, vibrating clangs. There was so much to see and hear that Bat felt caught between it all. The colors, the sounds, the newness of everything.