Cool Beans

by Lisa Harkrader

  “Mr. P told me to give you this.” He waved the pink sheet in my face. “In case you lost the first one.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I managed to say.

  I reached for the paper, hoping to slip it under my health notebook before anyone saw what it was.

  But Wesley pulled it away. He held it out of my reach.

  “Now, now, now, Tut,” he said. “Let’s not get grabby.”

  Martin Higby sat in the row beside me. Wesley settled himself on the edge of Martin’s desk, crushing the pages of Martin’s health book. He stretched his legs into the aisle, one jumbo basketball shoe crossed over the other, his arms folded across his chest, the pink paper still clutched in his hand.

  “I take my office aide duties seriously,” he said. “Mr. P gave me a message, and I promised I’d make sure you got it. This roster”—he gave it a rustle—“has to be turned in by the end of the period.”

  End of the period?

  “But I thought—” I swallowed. “I mean, Louise said—”

  “I don’t know anything about Louise.” Wesley gave a fake innocent shrug. “All I know is what Mr. P told me. He’s working on the bracket, and if he doesn’t get your roster, well”—he gave a fake sympathetic shake of his head—“you and your little art friends won’t be able to play dodgeball.”

  At the words “art friends,” all of Art Club snapped to attention. Their eyes—wide and unblinking—drilled into me.

  Twenty-nine

  “Dodgeball?”

  Art Club stared at me in horror.

  Everyone else poked one another and laughed.

  The Kaleys rolled their eyes and shot each other a loser dweeb look, a look that clearly said, “You have got to be kidding me. The loser dweebs are out of control. Now they think they can play dodgeball.”

  I stared at the back of Noah’s seat, my cheeks so hot, I was sure they had spontaneously burst into flames while I was sitting there. I wanted to touch them just to be sure, but I didn’t want to draw attention in case somebody in the room hadn’t noticed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Wesley’s smile turn even smirkier.

  Sometimes I wish I had a secret button on my backpack that I could press and wherever I was, a concealed passage would open beneath my feet. The floor would slide apart, I’d drop down out of sight, the floor would slide shut again, and I could make my escape without anyone looking at me. Noah could probably invent something like that. I needed to get him on it. While he was at it, maybe he could invent a time machine, too, so I could just erase this whole day. Or week. Or heck, everything back to Christmas. Before Bottenfield’s and the batting helmet and the bulletin board, before I’d hatched my brilliant dodgeball scheme.

  “Thank you, Banks.”

  I looked up. While everyone had been busy staring at me, Coach Wilder had ambled down the aisle. Now he ripped the pink roster from Wesley’s grip.

  “I think we can take it from here,” he said.

  “No problem, Coach.” Wesley casually hefted himself from Martin’s desk. “Just doing my job.”

  He swaggered toward the door.

  Coach Wilder handed the roster to me.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  I slid it under my health notebook. Picked up my pencil and held it at the ready, like I couldn’t wait to get back to the fascinating topic of abrasions. I hoped my flaming hot cheeks would put themselves out pretty soon.

  As Wesley’s jumbo basketball shoes thudded toward the door, Coach Wilder revved up again.

  “Step one”—he again held up one sausage finger—“clean the wound. Step two—”

  “You really think we can play in the tournament?” Spencer’s voice echoed through the room.

  I froze.

  Coach Wilder sighed.

  The jumbo basketball shoes halted in mid thud.

  Spencer turned around in his seat in the front row. He stared at me, eyes wide. “You think we’re good enough? You have that much confidence in us?” He shook his head in wonder. “Wow.”

  “I—uh—”

  I swallowed. I glanced up at Coach Wilder, hoping for rescue, hoping for more first aid facts.

  He gazed back. Cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think we could be good enough.”

  The room giggled. Somewhere behind me, Wesley snorted.

  I let out a Breath of Doom and leaned over to dig the neatly folded sheet of paper from my shoe.

  I hadn’t planned on breaking it out right here in the middle of health class, with Coach Wilder and the Kaleys and Wesley Banks, of all people, and even Sam watching me. But if I couldn’t have a speech bubble bobbing over my head, I could have the next best thing: an actual speech. I couldn’t guarantee my voice wouldn’t go all wonky while I read it, but it would still be better than having my words jam in my throat so nothing came out at all.

  I unfolded the speech bubble. I held it in both hands. “I’ve written down the reasons.”

  Wesley laughed. “This I got to hear.”

  I swallowed. And started reading.

  Here in Art Club, we are happy, confident, smart people. Except Earhart Middle doesn’t know it. We tried to show them at the assembly, but as we sadly remember, nobody saw our big finish.

  But now we have a chance for an even bigger finish. A finish everyone will see. A finish that will keep us from being vaporized into the Wasteland of Unwanted Clubs, along with Comic Book Collectors and the Square Dance Team.

  I glanced over the top of my speech bubble and accidentally caught Sam’s eye. I braced myself for one of her fatal glares. But she actually looked . . . proud? I guess because I’d used her startling yearbook discovery.

  Noah was doing his best to look encouraging.

  And Spencer was nodding.

  But the rest of Art Club just watched me. Eyes narrow. Chins set. Arms crossed over their chests.

  I took a breath and plunged ahead.

  A finish that will get our bulletin board back for good. Because how could Mr. Petrucelli keep a bulletin board from the winners of the biggest event of the entire school year?

  That’s right. I’m talking about Last Player Standing. Before you throw paintbrushes at me, think about this:

  1. Art Club works great as a team. We proved that during our assembly.

  2. Since we’re smart, we can figure out strategy.

  3. Since we’re not athletic, we won’t be a bunch of hot dogs and ball hogs. That has to be a plus. Right?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Coach Wilder nod.

  4. We’d have the best team name in the whole tournament: the Artful Dodgers.

  5. If we win—no, when we win—we’ll never have to worry about anyone taking anything away from us again. Not our bulletin board. Not our assembly.

  Not anything.

  That was my big finish. That was where Art Club was supposed to cheer and lift me onto their shoulders and carry me down the hall to the school office, where we could turn in our completely filled-out dodgeball roster.

  But when the last words came stumbling out into the dead silence, they sounded completely lame, even to me.

  “Okay, look.” I closed my eyes. “This”—I waved the speech bubble—“is all true. The part about us being smart? That’s true. And the part about working together? That’s true, too. And having the best team name? Completely true.” I let out a breath. Finally worked up the courage to look Art Club in the eye. “But that’s not why I signed us up.”

  Art Club watched me.

  “I know you thought I was doing all this for Art Club,” I said. “Like I was some kind of Art Club superhero, trying to save the bulletin board and keep us in the yearbook and everything. And I wanted to do all that stuff. I did. But mainly I did it for myself. So I could get the helmet.”

  The silence grew heavier.

  “The helmet?” Spencer looked at me, his face squinched into a confused frown. “The batting helmet? But . . . you don’t play baseball.”

 
Wesley snorted. “That’s what I told his little dork of a brother.”

  “He’s not a dork.” I clenched my fists. Clenched my speech bubble into a tight ball. “He’s a little kid.” I looked at Art Club. “He’s a little kid who wanted that batting helmet more than he ever wanted anything in the entire world, and because of me, he didn’t get it. Wesley did. So yeah, I tried to drag all of you into the last thing you’d ever sign up to do because I wanted to make it up to him. I’m sorry.”

  I closed my eyes. It sounded even more despicable when I said it out loud like that.

  “So . . . you did all this for your brother?” said Spencer. “The comic book pages and now this.” He waved a hand toward the crumpled speech bubble. “The dodgeball team?”

  I nodded.

  Spencer shot Martin Higby a sideways glance, and Martin shot his own sideways glance at Gretchen Klamm, who shot a glance at Olivia and her black smudges.

  Nobody said anything for a very long moment.

  Then Spencer gave a sharp nod. “If I’m Last Player Standing,” he said, “I’ll give the helmet to your brother.”

  I looked at him, confused.

  “Me too,” said Martin.

  “And me,” said Gretchen. “Like that’ll ever happen. But if it does, the helmet definitely goes to your brother.”

  Spencer rose from his seat, pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket with a big flourish, and strode across the room. He stopped beside my desk, pulled the pink roster out from under my health notebook, clicked his pen . . . and printed his name across the top line.

  He crossed the second t in “Osterholtz” with a crisp straight line, then turned and handed his pen to Martin.

  Martin signed under Spencer.

  Then Gretchen.

  Then Olivia, who signed in charcoal.

  And then everybody else in Art Club, including Dillon after Sam glared him into it.

  I couldn’t believe it. They’d all signed up. Every single one of them. And I didn’t have to fast-talk them into it. All I had to do was tell the truth. They did it for Beech.

  But that still only made ten of us. I pulled the roster toward me. We still had four blank spaces—two players and two alternates.

  Noah picked up the pen and spun the roster around to face him. “I can be an alternate.” He gave me a serious look. “I’m counting on you to never put me in the game.”

  “Not a problem.” I stopped. “But I thought the band had a team.”

  “They do.” He shrugged. “But the band is pretty big and, thankfully, the woodwind section didn’t make the cut. Brass and percussion are a lot more aggressive. The drum line can bob and weave like nobody’s business, and our tuba player’s a maniac. She has amazing arm strength. So I’m available to ride your bench.”

  He printed his name on the first alternate line.

  “Give me that.” Sam had stomped up behind him, and now she snatched the pen from his hand. She mowed me down with a Zawicki Glare of Don’t-Even-Think-I’m-Doing-Something­-Nice-for-You-’Cause-I’m-Not. “I have to be there anyway to keep an eye on Dillon. I might as well sit close.”

  She printed her name under Noah’s.

  So we had our alternates.

  Coach Wilder gave a thoughtful nod. “Two short.”

  I nodded too.

  He swept a quick gaze around the room and stopped on a slope-shouldered kid in the back row.

  “Skeet,” he said.

  Owen froze. He gave Coach Wilder a terrified look from under his hair.

  “You’re on the basketball team.”

  Owen gave a terrified nod.

  “Are you playing dodgeball for them?”

  Owen looked at Coach, then at Wesley. He gave an embarrassed shake of his head. “No.”

  Wesley shrugged. “We’re in it to win it. Had to cut the deadwood. Nothing personal.”

  Owen narrowed his eyes. He gave Wesley a glare. A glare that looked like it had been burning for a long while.

  And it occurred to me for the first time that maybe not everybody believed Wesley was the superhero of Earhart Middle. Maybe other people had noticed that he didn’t use his powers for good. Maybe they knew he was a supervillain in disguise.

  Owen rose to his feet, straightened his shoulders from their usual hunch, and gave a jerk of his head to his friend Curtis, who was sitting next to him. Curtis warmed the bench on the basketball team too but was built more like a fireplug, and as Owen loped toward my desk, Curtis followed after him in a nervous, fireplug trot.

  Owen looked at Wesley. Looked him square in the eye. “Maybe that wasn’t personal,” he said. “But this is.”

  He picked up the pen. Signed his name without taking his eyes off Wesley. He handed the pen to Curtis, who nervously signed, then skittered back to his desk.

  “So you got yourself a little team.” Wesley turned and swaggered out of the room. “Good luck with that, Tut.” The door banged shut behind him.

  Spencer picked up the roster. “Wow,” he said. “Wesley’s right. We do have a team. All the lines are filled in. All we need now is the sponsor signature.” He looked up at me, panic in his eyes. “And Mrs. Frazee has the flu.”

  “Not a problem.” Coach Wilder gave the ballpoint pen a click.

  “Mrs. Frazee can be cosponsor once she gets back.” He looked up at me. “MacBean. Turn this in at the office.” He handed me the roster. “Then run down and take the sign off the art room door.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  He clicked the pen again. “Art Club is no longer canceled.”

  Thirty

  I’ve always believed that every person is born with some kind of talent. Like I was a born comic book artist. And Noah was born with all those giant brain cells. And even somebody like the Kaleys, they were born knowing how to boss people around. Which took talent, and probably a lot of stamina, seeing as how they kept at it nonstop without ever stepping off the gas.

  But whatever talent Dillon Zawicki was born with, he did a good job of keeping it secret.

  “So. Hey,” I said to him that afternoon when I ambled into the art room.

  Dillon didn’t say anything. He’d pretty much commandeered my desk. (And I pretty much let him. I mean, when a water buffalo lays claim to your desk, what can a field mouse do?) Now he lounged on the tilty desktop.

  “So.” I tried again. “Thanks for joining up. Even if Sam made you. You really filled out our roster.”

  Nothing.

  Coach Wilder strode into the room, Noah on his heels. Noah carried my clipboard tucked sharply under his arm.

  “Let’s get to it,” said Coach Wilder. “We’ve got a lot to learn, and only two weeks to learn it.”

  He lined us up in a long row.

  Well, not all of us.

  Dillon stayed where he was.

  Coach Wilder paced in front of us, a drill sergeant inspecting his troops.

  Noah stood off to the side, clipboard at the ready, a faithful second in command.

  Dillon propped his head on his hand so he could watch, and then I guess after a while that took too much effort, so he just stretched out and flopped his head on his arm. Didn’t talk. Didn’t move. Didn’t drool, either, so I guess he wasn’t asleep.

  Coach Wilder stopped in front of us, feet planted wide, arms crossed over his sweatshirt.

  “Show of hands,” said Coach Wilder. “How many of you have played dodgeball before?”

  Owen’s hand shot straight up, with Curtis’s right behind.

  The rest of us stole sideways frowns at each other. On the face of it, Coach Wilder’s question seemed fairly straightforward, but the answer was a little tricky.

  Spencer sneaked a timid hand into the air.

  Coach Wilder gave him a sharp nod. “You’ve played dodgeball, son?”

  “That depends.” Spencer slid his hand back down. “When you say ‘played,’ do you mean voluntarily? Or are you also counting forced dodgeball games against our will in PE? And again, that term ‘pl
ayed.’ Does it refer to active participation? Or cowering at the back of the gym till a ball finally hits you so you can go sit down—does that count too?”

  Coach Wilder’s face wrinkled into a frown. “Forced against your—what? I don’t—okay, never mind.” He rubbed his temple. “We’ll just say we’re starting at zero.”

  Which, for us, was probably the best place to start.

  We pushed all the desks to the side of the room. (Except mine. It was already in the corner, with Dillon sprawled all over it.)

  Coach Wilder rolled in a big canvas cart on wheels, filled with different-colored balls. He plucked one out. It looked like a red rubber grapefruit.

  “This”—he squished the ball in his beefy fingers—“is a dodgeball.”

  With a snap of his arm, he whipped it at Spencer. Whipped it right at him and hit him smack in the gut.

  Spencer hunched over. Clutched his stomach. I could tell he was gearing up to yowl in pain.

  But instead, he blinked.

  “Hey!” Spencer straightened up. “That didn’t even hurt.”

  He hiked his jeans up and scrambled to retrieve the ball from under Mrs. Frazee’s desk. He handed it back to Coach Wilder.

  “No. It didn’t hurt,” said Coach. “It’s foam. Slick on the outside. Soft on the inside. You don’t want to get hit because that’s the whole point of the game: dodge the ball. But you don’t have to be scared. The ball’s not going to hurt you.”

  He dropped the ball back into the cart.

  “Now then, you’ve all seen this dodgeball tournament before,” he said. “What usually happens?”

  Owen raised his hand again, happy to suddenly be the expert at something, I guess. “Every man for himself, Coach. Pick up the balls. Slam them into the other team. Everybody trying to be Last Player Standing.”