Bouncing Back

by Scott Ostler

  Or Stomper, as everyone calls him, unless they want to get stomped for calling him Roland.

  Every bully needs a victim, and I guess I was Stomper’s go-to guy. Or at least one of his favorites. I hadn’t seen Stomper actually stomp anybody, but I’d overheard stories and rumors about him pushing other kids around and just being generally unpleasant. He was seriously disliked. And feared. I guess the whole school was his victim, but it felt like I had somehow earned a special place in whatever there was where his heart should be.

  Stomper was late for first-period science, but I was even later. I rolled into class and took my usual spot in the open space right in front of Stomper’s desk. I hated sitting that close to him, but I knew he couldn’t mess with me in the middle of class. Hopefully.

  Science was one subject I was doing okay in. At my old school, I not only had a lot of friends, but also I liked school—even the school part of school. I guess I have nerd tendencies, but I did pretty well in all my classes. Math was kind of my specialty, but now I was struggling with the new chapter in algebra, on exponents.

  But at least I had done Mr. Gleason’s science homework, which was to study a chapter on electricity. So I didn’t need to groan like everyone else in class when the teacher passed out a pop quiz. But I groaned anyway, because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

  “Ugh,” Stomper muttered as Mr. Gleason handed him the quiz. Stomper held it out in front of him and made a face like the test smelled bad. A couple of kids giggled.

  I was halfway through the quiz when Stomper dropped his pencil, leaned over to pick it up, and whispered to me, “Dude, what’s number two?”

  I shook my head, a little shake. I’m no kiss-up, but my mom and dad always made a big deal about honesty. They’re gone, but that stuff sticks with me. Sometimes it’s almost like I hear them reminding me. No way was I going to get caught helping someone cheat on a science quiz. Even if helping him would make my life easier.

  I was writing the answer to the last question when I heard, “Pssst! Number seven. Dude!”

  I ignored him. As the teacher was collecting the quizzes, Stomper said loud enough for the whole class, “I’m not planning to be an electrician, anyway.”

  Some of the kids laughed. The teacher glared at Stomper but didn’t say anything. Stomper kicked one of my wheels and whispered angrily, “You couldn’t give a bro a little help?”

  The bell rang and I stacked my books on my lap and pushed toward the door, but my chair jerked to a stop on the right side. The books spilled off my lap and onto the floor. Stomper had hooked his shoe into the spokes of my wheelchair.

  “Ow! Mr. Gleason, he ran over my foot!” Stomper howled, then laughed until little snot bubbles popped out of his nose, which added to his natural charm.

  Mr. Gleason hurried over, saw the books on the floor, and said, “What happened here? Are you okay, Carlos?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I just dropped my books.”

  Stomper brushed past me, saying, “I’d love to help, but I’m late for wood shop.”

  His tremendous joke didn’t go over as well as he probably thought it would. Most of the kids just stared. The ones who laughed did it out of fear, to stay on Stomper’s good side. Like he had one.

  One kid muttered, “Uncool,” then backed off when Stomper, almost out the door, turned around and gave him a glare. As Stomper sauntered off, two girls picked up my books and one of them said to me, “He’s such an idiot.”

  I made it through the rest of the school day, surviving Monday, and when I got home, Rosie had a bowl of tomato soup and a brownie waiting for me. As I dug in, she sat down at the kitchen table with me and asked how school went. Yep, this time she went right at it, so I knew something was up.

  “Fine,” I said, and she squinted at me.

  “How about the algebra test, Carlito?” she asked in a singing voice, like she was bringing up a pleasant topic, which we both knew she wasn’t.

  She held out her hand, like, Let’s see!

  I sighed, riffled through my backpack, pulled out the test, and handed it to her.

  Rosie didn’t say anything, just held out the paper with a big red C-minus on it, and gave me that knowing look of hers.

  I couldn’t help it—I started to laugh.

  She frowned. “Carlos, why are you laughing? This is serious.”

  “You remind me of Mom,” I said, still laughing. “It’s the way you say stuff with your eyes.”

  That earned me a big hug. My mom had been seven years younger, but she and Rosie could have passed for twins. Both tall and thin, with long dark hair and big dark eyes. Sometimes looking at Rosie made me miss my mom, but most of the time it just made me feel like part of Mom was still with me.

  Rosie sighed, then backed away and waved the test at me again, putting her super-serious, no-baloney stare back on. “Nice distraction tactic,” she said. “Carlos, Augie and I are not algebra whizzes. I will check into getting you a tutor. We both know you’re not a C student. Your mom always bragged that you were going to become the family’s first rocket scientist.”

  She paused. Then, “Besides, if you decide you want to play basketball, remember what the coach said about school. He seemed to mean business.”

  Oh, yeah. Basketball.

  I guess Rosie could see I was about as enthusiastic about basketball as I was about algebra.

  “What is it, Carlos?” she said quietly. “Having more doubts about basketball?”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I said. “Or if they’re ‘my’ team,” I added, pushing the brownie crumbs into a little pile.

  “You know they aren’t expecting you to be the star of the team,” Rosie said softly. “All those kids had to learn—still are learning—how to play. Besides, the team has only six players. They don’t need you to be a star, they just need you. I might possibly be prejudiced, but I think any team would love to have Carlos Cooper.”

  I stared at my plate.

  Rosie sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Or maybe you think it would be more fun to stay home and study algebra.”

  I wadded up my napkin and shot it into the wastebasket in the corner.

  “See? You’ve still got the touch, mijo.”

  CON MAN

  EVERY DAY AFTER SCHOOL, I PRACTICED DRIBBLING IN the driveway. Talking to myself. Push-push-bounce. Push-push-bounce. Reminding myself not to accidentally say it out loud.

  I still wasn’t sure about basketball. It’s no fun to do something you suck at. But what else was there for me to do?

  I found a couple of basketball videos on YouTube about strategy, how different offenses and defenses work. Before, all I cared about was getting the ball and shooting. I never realized the game was so complicated. I had a lot to learn.

  Rosie had a treat ready for me when I got home from school Friday, as usual. I was sinking my teeth into a gooey chocolate-chip cookie when Augie got home from work. He looked worried.

  “Big storm coming in tonight, raining hard most of tomorrow,” he said.

  “Good thing I’ll be inside a gym,” I said, still focused on the cookie.

  “Carlito,” Augie said, getting right to the point, like he usually does. “Inside is fine. Getting to and from the gym is what I’m worried about. I wish one of us could drive you, but Rosie is leaving early for a seminar, and I’m on emergency fallen-tree duty all day. It looks like you’re going to have to skip practice.”

  At first, that sounded okay. It was an excuse to put off being embarrassed. Plus, the plan had been for me to take the bus by myself to practice, and I wasn’t sure how confident I was about that. Trooper encouraged the parents to let us players ride buses on our own, to learn how to be independent, so Augie and I had already taken a couple of practice trips that week. But it can be tricky. You have to wait for the driver to lower the wheelchair ramp, and then you have to hope it’s not so crowded that people have to move out of the wheelchair spot.

  There’s a lot
of good stuff on TV Saturday morning, I told myself.

  I thumbed through the Buccaneers’ group texts, thinking of a way to tell them I probably wouldn’t make it to practice. There were messages about how the players couldn’t wait to find out what new thing the coach was going to show them. And there was chatter about the State tournament.

  Mia

  Guys, we’ve GOT to make it to State again this year.

  Jellybean

  San Diego will be even cooler than Fresno was last year. We’ll get to go to the zoo and maybe even the beach.

  Mia

  The big banquet for all the teams was the best.

  Hot Rod

  I’m not rooming with Jellybean again. He talks in his sleep.

  Jellybean

  Hey, at least I have something to say.

  James

  It’s crazy, but I’m already dreaming about Nationals. Three years ago my parents took me to the Nationals, in Las Vegas. They were in this GIANT arena, with a video screen and everything.

  Mia

  Trooper says we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves and get all wrapped up in State and the Nationals.

  Jellybean

  Hello? Trooper’s not in this group chat. Do you wait for Christmas Day to dream about Christmas?

  Hot Rod

  No, but Christmas is a sure thing. Remember, we don’t have Phil the Thrill anymore.

  That was a name I didn’t recognize. I hadn’t said anything on the group texts, except once when Mia asked me about a science test we had coming up. But it was cool that they included me. I had forgotten what it was like to have a group of friends you could just hang out with.

  Suddenly, I really wanted to go to practice. But Augie was serious about the storm, and I never argued with my aunt and uncle. Not after what they were doing for me. Taking in a twelve-year-old nephew to raise? A nephew in a wheelchair? That’s not easy. So I tried to be low maintenance.

  Before they took me in, before the accident, Rosie and Augie were my coolest friends. My parents and I spent a lot of time with them, and my parents had to be, well, parents. But Rosie and Augie spoiled me, let me have double ice-cream cones and stay up late watching movies. Now they had to be parents. The only thing that didn’t change was how great they still were.

  I looked up from my phone and took a deep breath. “I know I can handle the bus, Augie. And I promise to take an umbrella,” I added weakly.

  He raised an eyebrow, so I tried a different tactic. “Uncle,” I said with a smile. “Remember that time when you let me skip school?”

  Augie looked at me sideways.

  “Yeah, you and Rosie were visiting us, and you gave me a ride to school. But instead of going to school, we went to the park and shot hoops, and then we stopped for an ice cream. You gave me a note for school saying I was late because I had a dentist appointment.”

  “Let’s get our facts straight,” Augie said. “You missed only one class, gym. And you’d been having an argument with your mom, so I wanted to talk with you, man-to-man.”

  I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms over my chest. “I remember. I was mad because Mom wouldn’t let me go to the city on the bus with my friends, without an adult.”

  Augie smiled. “I see where this is going, Carlito. I told you that day I believed you were mature enough to handle the trip, but that your mom’s decision came from wisdom and love, and must be respected. This is different. You’re a year or so older, but we have to factor in the weather and the wheelchair.”

  Augie never played sports as a kid. When he was eight, he started working in the fields in California’s Central Valley, picking lettuce and grapes. Maybe Rosie, with her sports background, would be more sympathetic.

  “We’ve only got eight weeks before the State tournament, and we need every practice to get ready,” I said. “The kids told me a team has to have at least seven players to qualify for State, and with me they have seven. I have to go to practice. Trooper said he’s got some important new stuff to show us. And the bus drivers are always super helpful. Right, Augie?”

  Rosie frowned, looked at me, looked at Augie, shrugged.

  “Okay, Carlos,” Augie said, crossing his arms. “Be sure you take your phone and call me when you get there, and then again when you’re heading home. And don’t be dribbling the ball in the rain.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, trying to look serious.

  They looked at each other, like, Are we making a mistake here?

  I opened my backpack and pulled out my algebra book. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some homework to do.”

  “World’s greatest con man,” Rosie said, shaking her head. I gave her the innocent look.

  No con. I did attack my algebra. For a few minutes. Then I got out my sketch pad and drew a few plays that I thought up while watching the videos. Maybe I’d show them to Trooper at practice.

  THE BUS

  THE RAIN POURED DOWN ALL RIGHT, BUT LUCKILY there was no lightning. Lightning would have been the deal breaker.

  Rosie packed me a thermos of hot chocolate and Augie made sure I was waterproofed—rain pants, rain boots, rain poncho, and an umbrella. I grabbed my basketball and set off.

  First bus, no problem. But I had to transfer at midtown, and that bus was fifteen minutes late. Then the driver had trouble operating the wheelchair lift. When I finally rolled onto the bus, it was packed. A few people moved out of the way to clear the wheelchair spot. Maybe it was my imagination, but the passengers didn’t seem happy about the extra delay, which was only about five minutes, but maybe because it was five minutes more of being jammed on a bus on a rainy day.

  I was embarrassed, but Trooper, at one of his little talks during a break at practice last week, had said we should never be self-conscious about stuff like this.

  “Sometimes you’ll feel like you’re in the way,” he said. “But you’re not. It’s your world, too. That said, don’t assume the worst. Most people understand that people have different needs. Don’t look for the negative; look for the positive. It’s more fun when you find it.”

  I knew from the group texts that Trooper devoted a practice day every year to what he called “transportation education.” The players split up into pairs and rode buses and the subway, learned to read schedules and use the ticket machines and the handicapped bus ramps and stuff like that. Sometimes the parents rode along, for safety, but the kids did everything by themselves.

  They said Trooper made it a competition: The team that came back with the best travel story got a prize.

  On group chat, the players like to dig up some of Trooper’s famous sayings.

  “You are adventurers, not couch potatoes.”

  “Life is not a spectator sport.”

  This didn’t feel like an adventure. I tried not to look around the bus at all the grumpy faces. Then I accidentally caught the eye of an old man across the aisle. He smiled and nodded at the ball on my lap.

  “Got a run today?” he asked.

  “A run?” I didn’t know what that meant.

  “A game,” he clarified. “You gonna play ball today?”

  “Yes, sir. We have practice.”

  “Indoors, I hope. You any good?”

  I shrugged. What was I going to say? Admit I was terrible?

  “You tell yourself you’re good, little brother,” he said quietly. “Then you work hard to make it the truth.”

  The man motioned for the ball. I was surprised, but I took it out of the bag and flipped it to him. He spun it on his right index finger, then fanned it to keep it going. My mouth dropped open. This old guy must have been on the Harlem Globetrotters when he was younger. Everyone was staring at him.

  The bus stopped and the old man flipped the ball back to me. He winked, stood up, and walked down the bus steps.

  Tell yourself you’re good. That sounded cool, but I knew it wouldn’t be that simple once I actually got out on the court.

  “Railroad Avenue,” the bus driver called ou
t.

  “That’s my stop,” I said, cringing, hoping the driver would work the lift better this time.

  He did. Whew.

  The rain was still pouring down as I wheeled onto the sidewalk. There was a shop on the corner at the top of the hill with a blue neon sign—Wonder Donuts. I had time before practice started, and I decided to duck in and get a donut, and wait for the downpour to lighten up a bit.

  A little bell tinkled as I rolled through the door, dripping water all over the floor. I was the only customer. The guy behind the counter was reading a thick book, and he put it down and smiled. He was tall, about six four, and thin, with long blond hair. Around college age.

  “How do you like our typhoon?” he said and, noticing my puddle, added, “Don’t worry about the water. We’ve got the miracle of linoleum.”

  “I knew it was going to rain,” I said, running my hands through my wet hair. “But not like this.”

  “You play for the Buccaneers?” he asked.

  “Sort of,” I said, surprised that he knew of the team. “I’m new. Just, uh, checking it out.”

  “I know I haven’t seen you before. Some of the players stop in on Saturday mornings. My name’s Dizzy, by the way. Or just Diz.”

  His introduction caught me by surprise. After a second I said, “Carlos. I’m Carlos.”

  Diz noticed me glancing at his book. He tapped it and said, “Lively stuff. Criminal law. I’m studying to be a lawyer. Not a criminal.”

  “A lawyer named Dizzy?” I said. “Is that, like, your real name?”

  He laughed. “Life story in fifteen seconds: I was a high school pitcher, and the Giants signed me. I lasted two years in the minors before blowing out my arm. I threw a lot of junk, so one sportswriter wrote that I made the hitters dizzy, and that name stuck. Now here I am.” He tapped the law book again. “That’s my career arc—from diamonds to donuts. Next stop, dockets. Speaking of donuts, what can I get you?”

  “Chocolate with sprinkles, please.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Most people don’t say please anymore.”

  “I guess my parents were old-fashioned,” I said, remembering how they insisted I say please and thank you. Rosie and Augie continued that tradition.