by Don Calame
“This isn’t the Home Shopping Channel, dude,” Coop says. “We don’t offer money-back guarantees.”
“All right.” Sean turns to Coop. “Let’s get this over with.”
Sean and Coop march off across the lawn toward the shopping strip.
I grab my iPod and start watching Sin City to get my mind off the fact that I probably just threw away twenty dollars.
When Coop and Sean return, they empty a big plastic bag of candy and chips and fruit pies onto our towels. It looks like a vending machine exploded.
“This is your plan?” I reach over and pluck up a Whatchamacallit. “To have a party?”
Sean grabs the candy bar from my hand. “Don’t!” he snaps. “This is a carefully calculated formula. How long until the medley?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Twenty minutes?”
Sean looks at Coop. “We’re cutting this pretty close.”
“Just get to work,” Coop says.
Sean kneels down in front of the pile of junk food and starts sorting it out. He mumbles to himself as he places a lemon pie into a pile with a bag of pork rinds and a pack of malted milk balls.
“What are you doing?”
Coop grabs my arm, pulls me up, and guides me off. “You should be somewhere else.”
“What’s going on? I don’t understand.”
Coop flashes me a closed-mouth smile. “That’s good. Let’s keep it that way. Go on.” He gives me a little shove.
I glance back over my shoulder as I walk toward the bleachers. Coop does a little shooing gesture.
This is ridiculous. I should just cut my foot on a rusty beer can and be done with it.
Twenty minutes later, the boys’ fifteen-and-older medley relay is called over the loudspeaker and Sean is licking his multicolored fingers as we approach the gate to the pool.
“Did you have a nice feast?” I say to him.
Sean lets out a ferocious belch.
“Maybe you can at least tell me when your little plan’s supposed to kick into gear. Because the race is about to start, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Relax,” Sean says.
We walk by the Dolphins’ relay team standing by starting block one, and that’s when I see their butterflyer, Tony Grillo, smiling and laughing and mock-punching one of his teammates in the shoulder. Tony seems to have doubled in size since last year — which makes him about four times as big as me. He almost doesn’t look real. His muscles are carved too perfectly in his body, like an Incredible Hulk action figure. The scar on his upper lip gives him a permanent sneer. Girls around the swim league say it’s sexy, but to me it looks like he always wants to bite you.
Tony’s leopard eyes suddenly lock onto mine. He grins like he can smell my fear. Like he knows I’m the sickly wildebeest.
I stare at the concrete. The pieces of hardened gum, the putty-patched cracks. Sean and I reach starting block three, where Sid Kershower and Gregg Zuzzansky are already stretching.
“Hey,” they say in unison to Sean and me.
“Hey,” we say back.
I pretend to limber up, too. Shaking out my arms, rolling my head. But really, all I can think about is how I’m toast. Sean and Coop have left me hanging out to dry, and they’re going to be laughing their heads off after this stupid relay. Not to mention that Kelly is about to witness the full measure of my dorkery.
“Go, Razorbacks, go!” I hear Kelly and Valerie starting up the swim-team cheer. “Go, Razorbacks, go!”
Then it’s Shannon Motts who takes up the lead. She spends hours writing and teaching us her idiotic team cheers every season. Shannon gets all pissed when we mess them up or change the words. If you looked up enthusiastic on Google, you’d probably see a picture of Shannon Motts jumping in the air and screaming through her yellow bullhorn.
“We are the Razorbacks. We can’t be beat!” Shannon calls out, her voice megaphone-amplified. About six people halfheartedly join in. “We are the Razorbacks, so take a seat! When we swim backstroke, all the other teams choke! When we swim breast, we are the best! When we swim free, it’s vic-to-ry! When we swim fly, we wave good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye!”
These cheers are supposed to energize you and make you feel full of team spirit, but right now all it’s doing is making me feel like I’m about to ride a tricycle in the Indy 500.
“I need to know what the plan is,” I hiss at Sean. “Now.”
“The plan? The plan is to kick some ass and take names,” he says a little too loudly, nodding at Sid and Gregg, who nod back.
I try to breathe, but my chest is tight and I can’t get enough air.
The four of us arrange ourselves into our swim order, behind our starting block: Gregg, Sean, me, Sid.
“Backstrokers in the water,” the starter calls out. She’s someone’s hot mom in a bikini top and track pants.
“No mercy,” Gregg says, holding up a solidarity fist. He’s got this totally serious scowl on his face as he steps off the ledge and into the water.
“What a tool,” Sean whispers to me out of the corner of his mouth.
He’s not the only one, I want to say. I could strangle Sean right here. I can’t believe I call him and Coop my friends.
Gregg slips on his goggles and arranges himself into starting position.
I look back and see Kelly and Valerie pressed up against the fence.
“We are the Razorbacks, it’s no mistake!” Shannon hollers. “Feel our power and eat our wake!”
“On your marks,” the starter lady calls out.
I never thought this is how my life would end, but I guess we all have to go sometime.
“Get set.” She raises her starter’s pistol over her head. I wish she would just point it at me and put me out of my misery.
Bang! The gun fires and I jump. The backstrokers push off the wall in six simultaneous, splashing swells.
Sean’s eyes are glassy, and he looks a little pale as he steps up onto the starting block.
He’s probably feeling guilty. Jerk. Serves him right.
Gregg’s in the lead, heading into the turn. He’s an egotistical moron, but he also happens to be a strong swimmer, which just makes you hate him even more.
I shift from one leg to the other and then back again. A cold shiver rockets up my spine. The volume on the world has suddenly been cranked up. There’s the roar of the crowd and the slosh of the water and the tick of the timekeeper’s stopwatch all swirling around me, making me dizzy.
“Ow!” Sean suddenly screams, grabbing his middle and folding over. Everyone turns and stares. “My stomach! Oh, God! The pain!” He staggers off the starting block, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Ms. Luntz rushes through the pool gate toward Sean. She looks more furious than concerned. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” she says when she reaches his side.
“Can’t swim.” Sean groans. “Horrible stomachache. Have to . . . forfeit. Uhhhhh.”
Are you kidding me? This is the great plan? A stomachache?
“Omar!” Ms. Luntz calls out, not missing a beat. “Get over here! You’re swimming breaststroke!”
Sean’s bent over, his arm leaning on the starting block. He’s not faking it, that’s for sure. His face has turned a sort of yellowish blue.
Omar bolts through the fence, whipping off his hoodie and stumbling out of his sweatpants. He hops up on the starting block, fumbling with his goggles as Gregg hurtles backward with half a lap to go.
Omar leans forward, ready to take off once Gregg reaches the wall.
Ms. Luntz is trying to help Sean up, but he’s not making it easy. He’s all deadweight, wriggling around.
“Don’t move me,” Sean groans.
And that’s when he makes a dive for the edge of the pool and lets fly a rainbow torrent the likes of which I’ve never seen before in my life. It’s like an open fire hydrant plugged directly into hell.
Lifeguard whistles blow like crazy and girls start screeching and all the swimmer
s step away from the pool as Gregg backstrokes right through the floating psychedelic afghan.
My stomach lurches. I have to turn away or I might follow Sean’s lead.
I see Cooper laughing hysterically, smacking his hand into the fence. He gives me a double thumbs-up.
I feel kind of bad now for thinking Sean and Coop wouldn’t come through for me. I mean, Valerie was right there, able to see the whole disgusting thing, and Sean chucked a dummy, anyway.
I had no idea he was such a good friend.
“YOU CAN USE ’EM, but if you touch anything else I’ll break your face.” That’s what my brother, Pete, said to me when I asked if I could use the weights in his room while he’s on vacation with Melissa and her family for the next couple of weeks. He also said he’d break my face if I didn’t put the weights back exactly where I found them. Or if I damaged them in any way. Or if I left my stink in his room. Normally I wouldn’t put my face in such danger, but these are desperate times.
I got out of having to swim the fly at the relay medley, but sectionals is in two weeks and there’s no chance we’d get away with pulling that same stunt again. I figure if I work out hard enough, I might be able to build up at least a bit of muscle by then.
I run an Internet search on the computer in the family room: Building muscle workout routines. There are 683,000 results. I need an extreme workout that will kick in superfast, so it’s pretty lucky when I come across one called The Extreme Workout — Massive Muscles, Ferociously Fast. It consists of an intense series of exercises with names like Severe Squats, Deadly Deadlifts, and Kamikaze Curls. The article explains how to get maximum results out of each exercise. There are pictures and everything. If you follow what they say, you’re supposed to pack on the muscle in just a few weeks. I print it out and start toward my brother’s room.
“Matt, can I see you a second?” It’s Grandpa Arlo, calling from the kitchen.
“I’m kind of busy, Grandpa,” I call back. “Can we do it later?”
“When you get to be my age, there might not be a later.”
I look down at the pages in my hand and sigh. It’s not like I’m looking forward to doing these exercises, but I have to get started or I’ll never get into shape.
I make my way into the kitchen and there’s Grandpa Arlo, folding Christmas wrapping paper around a toaster-size box on the table. It’s weird seeing dozens of Santa Claus heads smiling at you in the middle of summer. Grandpa Arlo’s having a difficult time with the wrapping; there’s too much paper and not enough box.
“Whatcha doing, Grandpa?”
“Just a minute.” He wrestles some tape from the dispenser and secures a crumpled wad of wrapping paper at one end of the present. “There,” he says. “Finished.”
It’s the saddest-looking gift I’ve ever seen. I mean, I’m no wrapping expert, but even I can manage a present that doesn’t look like it’s been kicked around the yard.
“What is it?”
“Never you mind,” Grandpa says. “I just need you to deliver it to Mrs. Hoogenboom.”
“Is it her birthday or something?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Grandpa says. “Why would I use Christmas paper on a birthday present?”
“I don’t know. Why did you use Christmas paper in July?”
“It’s all we had. Now shut up and listen.” Grandpa Arlo grabs the present and holds it out to me. “I need you to be discreet. If she sees you delivering it, she’ll be suspicious. I just want you to put it on her front doorstep, then knock and run and hide.”
“Can’t I just leave it and she’ll find it when she comes out?”
“No. You need to make sure she finds it right away.” Just then, the box meows and wobbles in Grandpa’s hands.
“Is there a cat in there?”
“It’s a kitten. Edith said she’d always wanted a kitty, but Ray was too much of a curmudgeon. Well, now she can have one.”
“Why don’t you want her to know it’s from you?” I say.
“Animals are risky gifts, Matt. People either love you for giving them a new friend or hate you for saddling them with a burden. I just signed it ‘From Someone Who Cares.’ That way, if she likes it I’ll tell her it’s from me, and if she doesn’t, we can jointly curse the inconsiderate bastard who gave it to her. Either way it’ll give us something to talk about.”
“What if she’s not home?”
“Where’s she going? Her husband just died. Go on. Take it over there.” Grandpa Arlo shoves the box at me.
I fold up my workout papers and tuck them into the back pocket of my shorts. I take the gift, but it’s unsteady because the kitten keeps moving. “Shouldn’t you poke holes in this or something? For air?”
Grandpa scrunches up his face and bats my idea out of the air with his hand. “No. That would give it away.”
Another muted meow comes from the present.
“I don’t think a few airholes will be what gives it away, Grandpa.”
“Don’t worry about it. Paper’s porous. And there’s plenty of air in the box. Just get it over there. Chop-chop.”
“Okay.” I turn to head out.
“When you hide, make sure you can see her answer the door. I want a full report. What she says. What her expression is. Everything.”
“Sure, Grandpa.”
I stop in the vestibule to put on my sneakers, and while I’m at it, I punch a couple of holes in the side of the box with my house key, just in case.
I’m out the door, trying not to appear too suspicious as I run-walk across the street holding a poorly wrapped Christmas present in the middle of summer. The kitten is really yowling now. I take a quick look, but there’s nobody around. I want to unload this thing as fast as I can.
Up the Hoogenbooms’ cracked concrete driveway, past their faded brown station wagon, and I’m at the house. I place Grandpa’s package gently on the ground and then knock hard on the metal screen door. I should have decided on a hiding spot first off, because now I look left and right and there’s no place to go.
I dash around the car and lie on my belly, in the dirt and sand, behind the front wheel. I press my cheek to the ground and look under the car. Just then, the front door opens out and smacks into the gift. The kitten lets out a loud cry, and I hear Mrs. Hoogenboom say, “What on earth?” She bends down to pick up the box. The kitten howls. “Good Lord. I hope this isn’t what I think it is.”
Mrs. Hoogenboom takes the present inside. I don’t even want to know what she’s going to say when she opens the box.
Back at the house, Grandpa grills me for details. “What did she say?” “But how did she say it?” “Did she smile?” “Did she open it?” “Did she read the card?”
I give him as much as I can, though none of it seems to satisfy him.
He starts to pace, pushing his glasses up on his nose, stroking his goatee, rolling his tongue around his mouth. “Okay, okay. I’ll give it a couple of hours. Then I’ll phone her up. Just to say hello. And we’ll see if she mentions it.”
I tell him that sounds like a plan, but he doesn’t seem to be listening. I pull my workout instructions from my back pocket and head upstairs.
Pete’s room is like a museum exhibit. Everything is neat and organized and clean. All his CDs and DVDs are lined up in alphabetical order. All his books are arranged in the bookshelves using the Dewey decimal system. The clothes in his closet are color-coordinated. His posters — Harry Houdini, Clint Eastwood, the Beatles — are professionally framed and hung squarely on the walls. His fancy airplane models are placed strategically around the room, strung up from the ceiling or set out on a special display table made up to look like an aircraft carrier, with little air force figures standing around and tiny brass placards describing each airplane. He spends months making these models, getting all the details exactly right, and I have to say, I don’t see the big deal.
Pete’s dumbbells are stacked by the weight bench in neat little pyramids. I tiptoe toward them, careful no
t to brush up against anything. I unfold my workout sheet and look around for somewhere to place it. I decide that the floor would be best.
I test out a few of the weights to see how much I might be able to lift. I decide on two ten-pound dumbbells and start in with the Barbaric Bench Press. Three sets of thirty reps. I barely make it through, but you’re not supposed to rest in between exercises, so then it’s a twenty-pound dumbbell in each hand and some Ludicrous Lunges. My legs are burning halfway into the second set.
This working-out stuff really sucks. It feels like my muscles are being torn apart. There’s no need to look like Mr. Universe, so I decide to skip the last set of lunges and pick another exercise from the sheet. Impossible Push-ups are out, because I know from gym class that I can only manage three regular push-ups before I collapse. I’ll give the Crazed Crunches a shot and see if they don’t make me want to puke my guts out.
You’re supposed to be able to do the entire routine in forty-five minutes.
It takes me three hours.
When I finally get to my last set of Insane Standing Shoulder Presses, I am spent. But I’m not giving up. I have to finish. I’ve got too much riding on this to shortchange myself. I heave the fifteen-pound dumbbells over my head using all the force of my breath and every ounce of strength I have left. It’s twenty-four . . . twenty-five . . . twenty-six . . . twenty-sev . . . sev . . . sev . . . But I can’t get the dumbbells up past my ears. My legs feel rubbery. My arms are empty. With only four reps left.
I don’t know why, but I get it into my head that if I can just finish these last few presses, then I will somehow be able to take second in the butterfly and I’ll be able to ask Kelly out and she will be happy to be my girlfriend. I make that deal with myself.
I take a deep breath, screw up my face, and groan loudly as I force my arms up into the air. They’re shaking like crazy, but somehow I get the weights up past my ears.
I smile because I know that I am going to finish now. There is no doubt.
And just as I’m thinking this, my arms lock and my legs disappear from under me, and life switches into slow motion as I fall backward, clutching the dumbbells, smashing into Pete’s model-airplane display table, sending shards of wood and plastic and figures and little brass placards soaring and tumbling into the air.