Cool Beans

by Lisa Harkrader

  3. The Phantom Photocopier. I wasn’t sure who it was. It might still be Mrs. Frazee, dragging herself from her sick bed, copying my pages in her fevered state. But whoever it was, she was counting on me. After everything the Phantom had done, I couldn’t let her down.

  4. Emma thought it was cool.

  I wandered into the art room, wondering what Coach Wilder had planned for practice today—

  —and nearly got flattened by Spencer.

  “Tucker! Hey, Tuck!” He bounded up to me like a new puppy, his knitted hat flopping, his tail practically wagging. For one horrifying second I thought he might lick me.

  “My great-aunt finished it last night,” he said. “What do you think?”

  He did a little turn so I could get the full impact: his new hand-knitted vest. Red and white (our school colors), with brushes, pencils, and paint tubes worked into the pattern. His last name—OSTERHOLTZ—was embroidered across the back, like on a team jersey.

  “It’s the Official Artful Dodger Dodgeball Uniform,” he said. “Great-Aunt Bernice is ready to get started on the rest, so before we begin practicing, I need to write down everyone’s size.” He held a sheet of paper and a pencil at the ready.

  I stared at him. “That’s—I don’t even—wow.”

  That’s what my mouth said out loud.

  Here’s what my head said inside: No. Way. No way in this universe will I put anything like that on my body. I don’t care what you do—pull out my toenails, throw me in a tank of alligators, let Sam Zawicki yell in my face for the rest of my life—it’s never going to happen.

  “No way.” The words rasped through the art room. “Not happening.”

  My eyes popped wide. I clapped my hand over my mouth. Had it lost all control again? Had my mouth said those words out loud?

  Spencer’s eyes popped wide too. He clenched the paper in two white-knuckled fists and turned to peer into the depths of the art room.

  Dillon Zawicki was perched once more at my desk, his meaty head propped up with one meaty palm.

  “I don’t wear vests,” he said, “and I’m sure not wearing some loser vest with little pictures on it.”

  Now the paper started shaking, Spencer was gripping it so tight. I was afraid it might snap in two. Heck, I was afraid Spencer might snap in two. His whole body quivered, fired up to do . . . something. Defend his honor. Defend his great-aunt’s honor. Defend the honor of knitted vests everywhere. He was all puffed up, like an enraged baby chicken who forgot he was a baby chicken.

  “If you’re dead set on knitted stuff, do a hat.” Dillon squinted at Spencer. “Like what you’re wearing, only not puffy. Snug, you know? And none of this red and white stuff with fluffy little balls. Plain black. And snug. I’d wear that.”

  I blinked. I’d wear that too.

  Spencer was still staring at Dillon, eyes narrowed, mouth pressed into such a hard knot of rage that his lips had disappeared.

  “You know,” I told him, in my most soothing voice, “Dillon may have a point. Now wait.” I held up a hand. “Hear me out. As amazing as your vest is, and wow, it’s just—I can’t even—wow. But that kind of amazement takes time, and we’ve only got a week till the tournament. Your great-aunt would knit her fingers right off trying to make that kind of deadline. We can’t do that to her, Spencer. We just can’t.”

  Spencer nodded. “I never thought of it that way. Fourteen vests are an awful big undertaking.” He chewed his lip. “But she could whip out three, four hats per day.”

  “Well, there you go,” I said. “Plus she wouldn’t have to worry about sizes. They could all be the same. Except for, well”—I cut my eyes covertly toward Dillon—“maybe one extra large.”

  Spencer thought about this for a moment. Then he leaned toward me. “He doesn’t deserve a nice hat,” he whispered, “but it would look funny if he was the only one not wearing one, so I think I should be the bigger person.” He made a couple of scribbles on his sheet of paper, then looked up. “Would it be okay if I went ahead and wore my vest anyway? It would make my great-aunt really proud and it wouldn’t encumber my throwing arm in any way.”

  “That would be great,” I said. “That would be one hundred percent great.”

  Coach trundled the ball cart through the door. He tossed a roll of athletic tape at Dillon, who snagged it out of the air with one meaty paw.

  “We need lines on the floor,” Coach told him.

  Dillon heaved himself from his seat and started taping gym lines across the gritty concrete. Coach wheeled the cart to the center of the room. The rest of Art Club began pushing desks against the wall.

  “Oh . . . my.”

  We looked up—

  —and froze. Even Coach Wilder.

  Mrs. Frazee stood in the doorway. Her nose was red, her eyes runny, and she clasped a Kleenex tight to her mouth. She sniffed, and the hand-dyed scarf about her neck trembled.

  I looked at Spencer. His eyes were wide with horror.

  We’d made her cry. We’d taken over Mrs. Frazee’s room, turned it into a dodgeball court, shoved all the art equipment against the wall.

  And made her cry.

  Mrs. Frazee clapped her hands together. “Performance art!” She tossed her Kleenex into the air like confetti. “I abandoned you, stuck at home with this tedious flu, but you found a way to push your performance art in a new direction that speaks perfectly to your middle school experience.”

  Which Coach Wilder didn’t get.

  But Art Club actually did.

  Because when we thought about combining different media—in this case dodgeballs and gym shoes—to convey our idea, it made sense to us.

  A lot more sense than trying to convince ourselves we were athletic suddenly.

  “And our knitted caps fit right in,” Spencer whispered to me. “They’re the art part of the performance art. Wait till I tell Great-Aunt Bernice.”

  Dillon ripped the last piece of tape off with his teeth, Coach Wilder lined up the balls, and Mrs. Frazee helped organize us into what she called our “parts”—which was basically the dodgeball skills we were each best at.

  While Art Club warmed up, I sidled over to Mrs. Frazee.

  “So,” I said casually. “You must do a lot of photocopying, huh? I mean, in your capacity as an art teacher.”

  Mrs. Frazee shook her head. Her big turquoise earrings jangled.

  “Not really,” she said. “Permission slips sometimes. And once in a while a supply list. But I stay away from copiers, computers, any kind of electronic gadgets, as much as I can. I like a more personal touch.”

  That was true. Last semester when she sent home progress reports, they were hand-lettered and folded into origami zoo animals.

  But if Mrs. Frazee wasn’t the Phantom Photocopier, who was?

  Coach Wilder ran us through the drills. Footwork. Arm work. Dodging. Scooping. Catching. Aiming. Throwing. Mrs. Frazee directed what she called Themes and Communications Between Performers (a.k.a. dodgeball players).

  And Mrs. Frazee was right. When we thought about it like performance art—about each of us playing our part—we were good. Really good.

  We worked together, throwing, catching, scooping up balls, hollering out plays.

  When practice was over and we were all standing there, pink-cheeked, out of breath, hunched over with our hands on our knees, we couldn’t help smiling. And slapping high-fives.

  “Good practice,” said Coach Wilder. “A lot better than I expected.”

  We gathered up the balls, and as Coach wheeled the cart past Mrs. Frazee, he shook his head.

  “Performance art, huh?” he said to her. “Wonder if that would work in football.”

  Thirty-four

  I bounced on the balls of my feet to let off pent-up adrenaline. I glanced around the gym.

  Mom and Beech were planted on the bleachers, front row, midcourt. Beech had put his pillowcase cape on again, and his arm was wrapped around a big bag of popcorn. He saw me looking at him and stoppe
d munching long enough to wave.

  “Go, Tut! Win!” He punched the air with his fist. His voice echoed through the cavernous gym.

  Mom was chatting with Sam’s grandpa, who sat forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, work-worn hands clasped together, watching Dillon warm up (which, for Dillon, meant giving his knuckles a loud crack). Pure pride sparkled in his old blue eyes.

  He’d bought Dillon a new pair of tennis shoes for the tournament, and now Dillon stood there, fists on his hips, eyes narrowed and fierce as he studied our opponent—the Checkmates. His extra-large black knitted cap was pulled snug over his head. If it’d had horns jutting out the sides, he would’ve looked like a Viking.

  A few other parents were scattered through the bleachers. But other than that, the gym was pretty much empty.

  Which was weird.

  The tournament was only one part of the school carnival. The rest of the school was filled with games and food and the silent auction.

  But this was Last Player Standing, the biggest event of the carnival. The carnival? It was the biggest event of the school year.

  And hardly anybody had shown up.

  As I rolled my shoulders and tipped my head from side to side, stretching my neck, two kids from Earhart Middle wandered into the gym. They frowned at the empty bleachers.

  The first kid shook his head. “I thought there was supposed to be a game.”

  “Me too.” The other kid dug a bracket out of the pocket of his cargo pants. He studied it. “Eh. Chess geeks and art losers.”

  The first kid jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s see what kind of prizes we can score in the ring toss. We can come back when there’s a real game.”

  Well. That explained it.

  But that was okay. It would give the Artful Dodgers a chance to get our dodgeball legs under us without a big crowd breathing down our necks.

  The referee lined up the balls on the centerline. The players took up positions. The ref blew her whistle, and we rocketed toward the line in the opening rush.

  Noah’s scouting report was dead on. The Checkmates had a game plan, and you could tell they’d put real thought into it. They had mentally divided their side of the court into squares and assigned each of their players a square. They also assigned each player on the opposing team (us) the name of a chess piece. Dillon was our king, of course. Spencer was a knight because he moved over the court all cattywampus. I think I was a pawn, which was not a real confidence booster. The Checkmates targeted each of our players according to how valuable he was to us. They figured if they could take our king—Dillon—the game would pretty much be over.

  Which was solid strategy. It could’ve worked.

  Except while they were busy lining themselves up in squares, our king was busy mowing them down with dodgeballs. Before they could pick off even one of our pawns, their whole side was out.

  The ref blew her whistle. “Game over!”

  Art Club whooped and leaped together in a giant group chest bump.

  Mrs. Frazee jangled.

  Coach Wilder let out a low, growly “Yeah” and paced along the sideline, nodding his approval.

  The crowd cheered. (Okay, Mom and Beech and Sam’s grandpa cheered. Some of the other people clapped politely.)

  Even Sam did a solid fist clench.

  Noah made some kind of notation on his clipboard, then caught my eye and raised one finger in the air.

  One down.

  Two to go.

  And from this point on, it was only going to get harder.

  Thirty-five

  “If you win, you can have your stupid bulletin board back.”

  Kaley T. crossed her arms over her chest. Kaley C. crossed her arms, too. They shot each other a look that clearly said, “Doesn’t matter what we bet. These loser dweebs are never getting their bulletin board back.” They smiled when they did it.

  We were standing on the sidelines in front of the Artful Dodgers’ jail. The game was about to start, and the gym had filled up considerably. Most of the crowd was sitting on the Basketball Blast side, gearing up to cheer on the girls’ basketball team. The Artful Dodgers still had a smattering of diehard fans on our side, though: Mom, Beech, Sam’s grandpa, some lady knitting what looked like a really long scarf (she had to be Great-Aunt Bernice), and the other Artful Dodgers’ parents. The smell of popcorn wafted in from the carnival. Voices rumbled, feet clanked against the metal bleachers, and the louder the noise grew, the more sure I was that my heart would pound a dent right into my rib cage.

  And now here were the Kaleys, standing side by side in their screaming pink tie-dyed Basketball Blast T-shirts and knee-high socks, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, staring us down as they tried to make a bet on our bulletin board.

  “So?” said Kaley T. “Do we have a deal?”

  The Artful Dodgers shot one another looks. Confused looks. Suspicious looks. Was this a joke? Some kind of mind trick to throw us off our game?

  “What do you get if you win?” I said.

  “You mean when we win?” Kaley T. rolled her eyes at Kaley C. “We get the bulletin board forever, no matter how much you whine to Mr. Petrucelli, no matter how many people you talk into signing up for your pathetic little club. Even if you get half the school—”

  “The loser half,” muttered Kaley C.

  “—it won’t matter. We keep the bulletin board.”

  Art Club was even more suspicious now.

  But before we could figure out what to say, a low rasp split the air: “We’ll take that bet.”

  I turned. Dillon towered over me. Over all of us.

  He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Pink team’s just worried,” he said. “Art Club already signed up a bunch of new members. If these guys would get to work”—he raised an eyebrow at Owen and Curtis, who tried to slink behind Gretchen—“they could drag in a few more of their basketball buddies, and bam, the bulletin board would be ours. Pink team’s trying to stop that from happening. They’re desperate.”

  Dillon Zawicki had taken one look at the Kaleys and figured out exactly what they were up to. There was a real brain ticking inside his T. rex body.

  “Desperate?” Kaley T. nearly shrieked. “Ugh!”

  She and Kaley C. turned on their sneakers (with matching pink laces) and stalked back to their side of the gym, muttering as they went.

  “See? You try to help somebody and this is what you get,” muttered Kaley T.

  “I don’t even know why these art losers signed up. They don’t belong here,” muttered Kaley C.

  “No kidding. Don’t they know this is a sport? We’re going to slaughter them.”

  And then they giggled.

  Dillon turned to me. “Don’t worry. We got this.”

  He slapped me a high-five. About slapped my arm off.

  The ref gave the signal and the players trotted onto the court—the Basketball Blast in matching pink vs. the Artful Dodgers with our cool black hats pulled snugly onto our heads (and one completely uncool red vest dangling from Spencer’s scrawny shoulders).

  We lined up. The crowd hushed. The ref blew her whistle and the opening rush was on.

  The Blast weren’t as organized as the Checkmates had been. But they were a lot faster, a lot stronger, and a heck of a lot more bloodthirsty. And anybody who ever laughed at someone for throwing like a girl clearly never saw a girl throw.

  They whipped to the line, scooped back the balls, and started firing. And just that fast, Martin and Olivia went down, victims of ankle shots. They trudged over to sit in our jail.

  The Blast kept firing. Balls pummeled us from every direction.

  I have to be honest. The Artful Dodgers were stunned. It took us a few minutes to find our dodgeball legs, and by that time we were down six players. Half our team.

  But Owen was right. He said most dodgeball games were every player for himself—or herself. Chasing down balls. Slamming them into the other team. Nobody passing. Nobody working together. Everybody tr
ying to be the rock star.

  That’s exactly what the Blast was doing.

  And once we figured it out, once we got over the initial shock, once we got into our own rhythm, we started taking advantage of it.

  Owen caught a ball in one arm, then a ball in the other, and just like that—bang, bang—two Blast players were out, and Martin and Gretchen were back in.

  The Artful Dodgers kept dodging. Kept catching. Kept scooping up balls, passing to our best throwers, deflecting the other team’s attention while our best throwers hammered them. We synchronized our efforts, stuck to our strategy, just like we practiced.

  And the Blast kept doing what they did, which was that every single one of them gritted her teeth, played her own game, did everything she could to be Last Player Standing.

  And one by one, they started going down.

  We whittled away at their team till it was just the Kaleys and Emma against five of us.

  Emma fired a ball at Owen’s feet. It missed and bounced wide.

  Spencer darted and dodged across the court, snatched up the ball, and whipped it backwards. Whipped it to me.

  Emma had just thrown, was off balance, not looking at me. Making herself the perfect target.

  I pulled the ball back. Steeled myself.

  I hated throwing at Emma. I didn’t want to be the one to take her down.

  But just as I was taking aim, just as I was zeroing in on her ankles, another ball came whizzing from behind. About took my ear off. It whizzed past and—smack—hit Emma in the knee.

  “Out!” called the ref.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  Dillon gave me a quick chin lift. “Got your back, bro.”

  Emma dropped her ball and jogged toward her team’s jail.

  I felt bad for her because, well, she was Emma. But with her out, I could concentrate better on the game. Plus now we only had two players to target: Kaley T. and Kaley C.