Toby Wheeler

by Thatcher Heldring

  I told her I never said no to pizza.

  Usually, when I walked home from the rec center, I forgot all about the action on the court. But that day was different; tomorrow, I was going to show the world that a gym rat could play team ball, and that no matter what Vinny Pesto said, JJ was not too good for me. I was going to be JJ’s real teammate just like the rest of those suckers. The way I figured, they had never seen anything like Toby Wheeler.

  Corner Pizza was empty except for a couple of men playing pool. The restaurant was dimly lit, with peeling walls and wood booths that people had been carving their names into for centuries. To avoid the cold air from outside, we chose a booth in the back, across from the arcade games. JJ and I used to have a running competition on the Hoop Shoot. The standing record was twenty-four shots in sixty seconds. I set that on the last day of seventh grade, the last time we’d played.

  Megan smiled from across the booth, then frowned as if she had remembered something important. “I have to call home,” she said. As she was dialing, she turned to me and quickly whispered, “It might be better if you don’t say anything while I’m talking. Technically, I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

  While Megan was on the phone, I looked around, trying to figure out what it was she wasn’t supposed to be doing. Eating pizza on a school night?

  “I’m just getting pizza, Dad,” Megan was saying. “With who? Who am I getting pizza with?” Megan held the phone away from her mouth, bit her lower lip, then said casually, “Um, a girl I met…playing basketball at the rec center…. Yeah, she’s pretty good…. A little raw…. Okay, I will…. I know, Dad. No boys.” Now Megan was pretending to pull out her hair. Finally she said, “Tell Mom I don’t need dinner. I’ll be home by dark,” and hung up.

  Megan tossed her phone into her gym bag. “Sorry about that. My dad is a little paranoid.”

  As long as we never met face to face in a dark alley, he could be as paranoid as he wanted to be. “Hey, my dad sells wood chips for a living,” I said. “Nobody’s perfect.” Still, I hoped Megan was exaggerating. Nobody wanted a deranged father chasing him around town. “What does your dad do?” I asked.

  Megan tore the paper off her straw. “He coaches basketball….”

  Gulp.

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” she continued. “My dad is going to be your coach. Well, that was part of it.” Megan shed her raincoat and hung it on the end of the booth. “Do you still want to join the team?” she asked.

  “I thought I did.”

  “You have nothing to worry about. He’ll never know I was with you. And even if he did, he’d have to go through me first.”

  After we ordered, Megan told me more. A lot more. For instance, starting the next day, she was going to be a new student at my school.

  “Why did you move to Pilchuck?” I asked.

  As Megan took a long sip of her Coke, I tried to look at her without staring. Her hair was still pulled back, and there was a smudge on her cheek, maybe where someone had bumped into her during open gym. When she blinked, I noticed for the first time that her eyes were blue. Suddenly there was a crack from the pool table. One of the men, a giant with hands like catcher’s mitts, cursed and handed the stick to the other man. I thought about Megan’s paranoid dad and remembered seeing him in the gym the day before. He had seemed big enough to bend steel. That was when I got a little paranoid myself. I would be crazy to join the team now. What would he do to me if he knew I was the one who took his daughter out for pizza? He’d use me as an example, that was what. Like island tribes who stick the shrunken heads of their victims on posts to warn away trespassers.

  “Two years ago,” she said, “my dad was coaching a small college in Portland. He was working all the time, sleeping in his office, eating fast food twenty-four/ seven. If he wasn’t getting ready for a game, he was on the road, recruiting at high schools and jucos.”

  “Jucos?” I asked as the waiter delivered our pizza.

  “Junior colleges,” Megan explained. “Anyway, if he won a game, he’d come home all smiles and my mom and I would see him for about a day. But even then, we had to snap to get him to answer a question.”

  “Slice?” I asked Megan, balancing a steaming piece of pepperoni.

  “Thanks,” Megan said, holding out her plate. She continued, “But if he lost a game, he went back to the office. With him it was basketball, basketball, basketball.”

  “So what happened?”

  Megan let her slice cool. “The past season, his team was supposed to compete for a conference title. But they had some injuries and some bad games. By the end of the season, they were in last place. And Dad was worn out. He went to the doctor, who told him he needed to take it easy and watch his blood pressure. So he quit his job and came home.” Megan took a bite of her pizza, wiped her hands with a napkin, and went on. “At first it was good. He was rested and healthy again. Then he got bored and started watching talk shows all day because his doctor wouldn’t let him watch basketball. I think that’s when he came up with the ‘no boys’ rule. He watched this show called Dr. Barb. After that, every time I wanted to go somewhere, he would tell me about some girl on Dr. Barb who went to the mall and ended up getting kidnapped. Luckily, a friend told him Pilchuck was hiring a basketball coach. I didn’t really want to leave, but at least it got Dad out of the house again. And Mom thought coaching middle school would be a way to do what he loves, but with less pressure than college. So we moved.”

  “Do you miss your old school?”

  Megan thought about it for a minute. “So much,” she said finally. I thought she was going to say more, but it sounded like the rest of the words were caught in her throat. Instead, she shook it off and added, “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this. I don’t even know you. You must think I’m nuts.”

  I didn’t think she was nuts. I thought she was the first girl I could talk to without passing out. And even though I was already sort of scared of her dad, I had to know what had happened to him. “Your dad is fine now, right?”

  “He has to monitor his blood pressure. Too much excitement or stress could get him in trouble.”

  “Maybe he won’t take things so seriously this time,” I said.

  Through a mouthful of pizza Megan replied, “You don’t know my dad.”

  When we were finished, we left Corner Pizza. I walked Megan to the light. It was drizzling, so she pulled up her hood and tightened the drawstrings. “Does it snow much here?” she asked.

  “It snows a lot,” I said. “And it gets cold. Last year we had an early freeze and there was a rush on wood chips so everyone could cover their plants before winter. Dad was working late every night filling orders.”

  Megan nodded politely, but she must have been wondering why I was going on and on about wood chips. So I cut myself off and said, “Well, thanks again for helping me beat Pesto.”

  “Thanks for being nice to the new girl.”

  “No problem. I guess I’ll see you around school.”

  I had taken three steps when Megan called, “Toby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tomorrow, at practice,” she said. “Be ready to run.”

  On the way home, I sent JJ a text message: I’m coming to practice tomorrow.

  Later that night I got a message back: It won’t be like the rec center.

  6

  My brain was running out of oxygen. Thoughts were coming slowly. All around me, guys were bent over clutching the bottom of their shorts, gasping for breath, dreading the whistle. My legs seemed ready to buckle any minute. How had I gotten myself into this?

  I showed up for the first practice, that was how.

  I looked up at the clock and prayed for four-thirty when practice was supposed to end. At least that was what Roy Morelli had promised me an hour earlier. We had been running nonstop since then. We hadn’t even touched a basketball! Back and forth, across the width of the gym we ran, again and again, until my sides ached and my lungs b
urned like coals.

  Finally, at four-fifteen, Coach Applewhite brought out a basketball. That’s more like it, I thought. Who’s up for some five-on-five? Just the idea of playing an actual game revived me. This was my chance to show them what I could do.

  Coach stood on the baseline and sized us up. His shirt was pressed free of wrinkles and tucked neatly into his slacks. His shoes were spotless too—polished enough to reflect light from the ceiling. When he walked, his hair stayed frozen in place—like each strand was afraid to defy the man who combed it. Add to all that a pair of wire-frame glasses, and nobody would ever guess he was a coach and not a regular teacher—or even the principal.

  Coach held up the basketball. “Who wants it?” His voice was low and commanding.

  Nobody moved. Figuring Coach wanted a captain to pick teams, I said, “I’ll do it.”

  Coach looked surprised. “Wheeler. Be my guest.”

  I stepped to the free-throw line. “I’ll take JJ.”

  Embarrassed, JJ lowered his head.

  The rest of the team laughed quietly.

  Coach cleared his throat. “You’ll take JJ where?”

  “Aren’t we choosing teams?”

  More laughter from the baseline.

  “Son, does this look like recess to you? This is how we finish practice. You shoot two free throws. If you make them both, we’re done. If you miss one, we run. If you miss two, we run a little more.”

  I took a deep breath. It wasn’t as though I had never made a free throw before. You just bent the knees, aimed, and shot. So I did. My shot went up. It was straight. There was hope. Maybe I would be the hero after all. Then the ball dropped from the sky like a wounded duck, falling a foot short of the rim. Air ball.

  “Oh, man,” Roy said. “Why did we let the rookie shoot the free throw?”

  “Man, I wish the other benchwarmer hadn’t quit after tryouts,” said Khalil. “At least he could make a free throw.”

  The other benchwarmer? Why was Khalil comparing me to some benchwarmer? I guess he didn’t know Coach had asked me to come to practice.

  “We’re gonna be here all day,” someone added.

  I glanced at JJ, thinking he might get them off my back. But he was looking away. Suddenly, I felt like I was in battle. I was under attack and cut off from my backup. I had never had so many people mad at me at once.

  When we were done with the next set of sprints, Coach waved me back to the line. I shot again. This time the ball hit the front of the rim and rolled in.

  “It’s a miracle,” said Roy.

  “What would be a miracle, Morelli,” Coach said to Roy, “is if you could keep your mouth shut long enough to make a free throw yourself.”

  Roy trudged to the free-throw line and wasted no time missing his first shot. Running on fumes, we wheezed through another set of sprints. I stumbled across the baseline at 4:31, dizzy with exhaustion and thankful to be alive. I collapsed on the bench and found a bottle of water in my bag. I stretched my legs out. It was so nice to lie down. Looking up, I was surprised to see that the rest of the team was still standing on the baseline, most of them holding their sides and breathing hard. Maybe they were cooling down, or just hanging out. Their choice. I closed my eyes and congratulated myself on surviving the first practice. When my eyes opened, Coach’s face was nose to nose with mine.

  “Wheeler, what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

  “Just having a drink, sir.”

  “Practice isn’t over.”

  “But it’s past—”

  “Past what, Wheeler? Past your bedtime?”

  Still more laughter from the baseline.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Coach’s mouth was turned down at the corners. He did not look as impressed as he had the other day at the rec center. I was beginning to think I had misunderstood his invitation. He handed me the ball. “Two more.”

  Everyone groaned, including me. I didn’t want me on the line any more than they wanted me on the line!

  “I guarantee you there will be a game this season that comes down to a free throw,” Coach said as my first shot tickled the twine. “The more comfortable you are making that shot in a pressure situation, the better. But it is even more important that all twelve of you be in shape. Conditioning wins championships, boys. Lesson number one for today. We don’t play basketball to get in shape. We get in shape to play basketball.” My second shot missed. He continued speaking as we ran. “We have ten games this season, not including playoffs, and I believe this team has a chance to win every single one of them if we work hard and play as a team.”

  I had to push myself to get through the wind sprints, but I wasn’t the last one across the line. Raj led the way, with JJ, Roy, and Ruben darting on his heels. I was in the middle of the pack, huffing and puffing with Malcolm and McKlusky. Last place by a mile was Khalil, who chugged through his first lap but was wheezing badly when I looked back from the baseline. He was walking, too tired even to complain. That was when Ruben jogged over to him and guided him to the finish.

  “Thanks, man,” Khalil gasped. “I thought I wasn’t going to make it.”

  I felt bad for Khalil, but I was also relieved that someone was slower than me.

  Coach cleared his throat. “I know I’m new here, but I want you to know I already see a lot of potential in this team. I want you to be winners,” he added, “not just for the sake of winning, but to experience what goes into winning: twelve individuals being a part of something bigger than any one person. Remember that: It takes twelve of you to win one game.”

  Coach Applewhite let that sink in while he brought a mesh bag to the center of the gym. Inside the mesh bag were jerseys. Some green, some white, and some red. “These are your practice jerseys,” Coach explained. “First team wears green. Second team wears white. And there are two red jerseys for the reserves. I know we just started practicing, but I think it’s important for everybody to have a role on the team from the beginning.”

  I felt a little sorry for whoever was going to wind up with a red shirt. But it was like Coach said, this was about more than any one person. I was pretty sure there was a white shirt in that bag for me. I didn’t think Coach would make me a starter right away, so second team made the most sense. After all, he had seen me at the rec center.

  There was no surprise when the first three green jerseys went to JJ, Ruben, and Raj. The fourth green jersey went to Khalil and the fifth went to Roy, who played my position, shooting guard. McKlusky got the first white jersey. I sat up straight, waiting for Coach to call my name. The green team was huddled together, except for JJ, who stood apart like he was waiting for me to join him. But one after another, the white jerseys disappeared, until there were none left. This was not the way it was supposed to go. No way had I given up my life at the rec center to be a reserve on the basketball team. To sit at the end of the bench, watching JJ from the sideline like nothing had ever changed. No way. This was what was going through my head as Coach Applewhite handed the first red jersey to the seventh grader, Malcolm, then said, “And last but not least, Toby Wheeler.”

  7

  The next day in math class, Mr. Morales introduced a unit on geometry. Standing in front of the classroom in a tie, with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, he explained the Pythagorean theorem. “If you know the lengths of two sides of a right triangle,” he said in a way that made me think he thought he had discovered the formula himself, “you can calculate the length of the third side with a simple equation.”

  But my mind was not on triangles or rectangles or any angles at all. I had a problem, and no theorem was going to help me solve it. In one weekend, I had gone from a happy gym rat to the twelfth man on the basketball team. Sure, it was good to be on the team with JJ, and I was looking forward to road trips and stuff like that. But when was I going to play?

  There was Vinny to worry about too. I had to work fast. Our third game of the season was against Hamilton. If Pesto saw me on the
end of the bench, he would never let me hear the end of it. I might have to fake an injury.

  The bell rang and everyone packed their bags and filed toward the door. Mr. Morales stopped me as I passed his desk. “Toby, hang out for a second. I want to ask you something.”

  “I swear that sink was clogged when I went into the bathroom.”

  “Not that. I want to ask you a favor. I have a new student in my prealgebra class. She just started yesterday and she needs a little help getting caught up with the material. Since you were one of my best algebra students, I thought perhaps you could be her tutor. Just for a couple of weeks.”

  “Sure, Mr. Morales. I’ll help.”

  Mr. Morales smiled as the door opened. “Here she is now. Toby, meet Megan Applewhite. Megan, this is Toby Wheeler, your math tutor.”

  Holding her bag close to her chest and hovering cautiously on the edge of the classroom, Megan said, “We’ve met.”

  I did a double take. What happened to the girl who set up the winning shot to beat Vinny Pesto? Or the girl with pizza sauce on her face at Corner Pizza? On Saturday her hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, and her gym shorts were covered in sweat. Today, her hair was parted straight down the middle and fell to her shoulders. Instead of a blue cotton T-shirt, she wore a button-down dress shirt, a dark skirt, and high-heel shoes. She still had the same blue eyes and freckles, though.

  Because we were late, Mr. Morales gave us hall passes. As we were leaving the classroom, Megan looked down at her schedule, then up, then down, then up again. Finally she looked at me and asked, “Do you know where room two-twelve A is, Toby? This school is so big. I’m still getting used to it.”

  “Follow me,” I said.

  The bell had rung, so the hallway was empty. We walked quietly, the only sound the click-clack of Megan’s shoes. We had reached the corner when we heard footsteps. Coming around the bend were JJ and Valerie.

  JJ was startled but seemed relieved not to be facing a teacher. Still, he dropped Valerie’s hand and retreated a half step toward a locker. “Toby. What are you doing here?” he said.