How to Beat the Bully Without Really Trying

by Scott Starkey

  “These seats are amazing!” I yelled. We were just beyond the dugout by first base. “How did you get them?”

  “Oh, I have a few friends.”

  And then a voice from the next seat called out, “Evelyn! You made it.”

  “You know I wouldn’t miss it, Tom.”

  He laughed and came over to join us. The Mets were starting to file out for the bottom of the first.

  “I don’t believe it. You’re Tom Seaver!” I said.

  “Most boys your age don’t know about me, let alone recognize me,” he said and smiled.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time looking at you,” I replied.

  He raised an eyebrow, and I realized that did sound kind of weird. Aunt Evelyn said, “Tom, this is my nephew, Rodney. Maybe you can autograph a ball or something for him.”

  I felt like I was in a dream. I’m pretty sure my mouth was hanging open. He nodded and yelled into the dugout. A ball came flying out, which he easily caught. Pulling a permanent marker from a back pocket, he turned to me and asked, “It’s Rodney, right?”

  “That’s right,” I heard my aunt answer. The marker approached the ball. . . .

  “Wait!” I shouted. Tom Seaver jumped. “Can I tell you what to write?”

  He relaxed, smiled, and nodded. “Okay, what’ll it be?”

  A minute later the first pitch was thrown, a strike, and we all cheered. I turned back to my aunt. “Thanks for getting him to sign the ball for me.” I held it in my right hand and kept looking at it.

  “Wait until you see the other surprise I cooked up.”

  Before I had a chance to ask her what that meant, I heard a collective “Rodney!” I turned and coming down the aisle were Timmy, Tony, and Tommy, my three best New York friends.

  It was great to see them. After our greetings, we got hot dogs and settled in to watch the game. During the top of the first I described to the three of them how life was going. They laughed a bit when I started talking about Jessica. They had a hard time imagining me as the school tough guy, but they were happy for me.

  “Things aren’t so hot here,” Timmy said. I looked at him and he continued. “Turns out Rocco’s not going to move away.”

  “Really, what did you hear?” I asked him.

  Timmy continued. “He came back from that trip not looking too good and was in a real bad mood. He locked Tony in a locker, and said he was here to stay.” I felt bad for them, but I breathed a little easier knowing I’d have one less problem in Ohio.

  Tommy leaned in so my aunt couldn’t hear. “Yesterday he stuck a jockstrap on my head.”

  Timmy nudged his shoulder. “Don’t worry, man, we’ll get by. We always have.”

  I thought for a moment and took out the cell phone my parents had given me for the trip. I fiddled around and brought up Rishi’s e-mail. “Perhaps this will help.”

  “What is it?” all three wondered.

  “This is courtesy of my friend, Rishi. I think you’ll find he does excellent work.”

  For the rest of the game they spent as much time looking at the images on my phone as they did watching the action on the field. The Mets lost 4–2, but Timmy, Tony, and Tommy were all smiles.

  “I love the one with Rocco buried in garbage,” Tommy said.

  “Yes, Rishi has an excellent eye,” I replied. “I’ll send you the whole file.”

  My aunt and I walked them to the subway and said our good-byes. They were thrilled knowing they now possessed the perfect weapon against Rocco Ronboni—and I was equally thrilled as I gripped the signed baseball. I knew it was going to make someone back at Baber very happy.

  I was in such a great mood after the ball game that nothing could get me down—not even hearing Sir Snottingham on my aunt’s message machine when we got back from Citi Field:

  “Evelyn, dear, I’ll have you know that I was able to procure us three tickets to tonight’s performance. I spoke to my friend who works for the theater, and he said he’d personally put me where I belong. So, my dear Ev, you haven’t missed Victor Johnson’s last performance. Call me back to arrange where to meet. . . .”

  Several hours later my aunt and I were in a cab pulling up in front of a Broadway theater. I had been to some shows before with her, but this one was different. For starters, it was really packed. Everyone was standing out front dressed real nice, either waiting for other people to arrive or talking in groups. As we stepped out of the cab, Snottingham sauntered over and took my aunt’s hand.

  “Evelyn, wonderful to see you! Two days in a row. I am a lucky man!”

  “Oh you,” my aunt said, smiling. “Such a gentleman.” Meanwhile, Mr. Gentleman only gave me a stern nod before heading off to a window to pick up the tickets.

  When he got back, the three of us entered the theater. The whole place was alive with people talking about this Victor Johnson guy and how it was his last performance in the show. I noticed that the usher pointed to the stairs and not the better orchestra section. “No doubt we are in a private box,” gloated Sir Snottingham. “Being a conductor has its benefits, you know.”

  “Former conductor,” I corrected him.

  He spun around and was about to say something, but just then another usher directed us up more steps to the last row. He snapped, “This is absurd! How dare you stick the conductor of the Royal Symphony Orchestra in the last row!”

  “Former conductor,” I corrected, and this time I thought I might get cracked with his cane.

  “You’re not in the last row,” the usher pointed out.

  A smile of relief flashed over Sir Snottingham’s face. “No? Oh, I should have known.” He turned down to me and growled, “You see what it’s like to be an influential person? Not that you’ll ever be one.” He straightened back up and addressed the usher. “Now that the little misunderstanding is cleared up, where are we, my good man?”

  “You’re behind the last row. You see those folding chairs in back of that pipe over there?” Snottingham’s face turned as red as the theater seats. If his head had exploded, I wouldn’t have been shocked. My aunt eventually convinced him it wasn’t the end of the world, that partially seeing and partially being able to hear a play were better than nothing. We grabbed little books about the play called Playbills and sat down.

  Behind the large pipe, I couldn’t see the stage unless I craned my neck all the way to the right. It started to get stiff so I gave up and looked at the Playbill. It was then that I realized I knew the guy on the cover! I couldn’t believe it. I looked more closely and it was him! It was Old Man Johnson, from back in Ohio. Of course, Old Man Johnson was an actor from New York. I hoped he would remember me. I turned to my aunt. “I bet I can do something about these seats.”

  Snottingham laughed. “You? You couldn’t even pick your nose correctly.”

  “Well, you’re the expert in that department,” I said under my breath.

  “Now, now boys,” my aunt chimed in before turning to her friend. “This is my nephew we’re talking about here.” She then reminded me that it was a sold out show and that it would be impossible to do anything.

  “Can I at least try?”

  My aunt nodded at me with a half smile.

  “Bah!” snapped Snottingham. “Go! Don’t hurry back.”

  I walked down the stairs to the front of the orchestra section. No one stopped me in the large theater. The crowd was settling in and buzzing. I went up to an official-looking man at the front of the theater.

  “Hi. I was wondering if you’d be able to give my grandfather a message.”

  “Kid, I’m not your nanny. Find him yourself.”

  “You’ll let me back there to see him?”

  “What? What are you going on about?”

  “My grandfather, Victor Johnson, can you tell him something for me?”

  “You’re grandfather is Victor Johnson? Yeah, and I’m Teddy Roosevelt,” he laughed.

  “Well, Teddy,” I said, “I’ll tell him later after the show that he didn’t ge
t to see his only grandson visiting all the way from Ohio, because you wouldn’t give him a little message.” I turned to walk away.

  “Wait!” He eyed me suspiciously. “Kid, if you’re lying to me and I get in trouble for disturbing him, you’re going to get it.”

  “Tell him his grandson, Rodney, from Garrettsville wanted to say hello. Tell him we haven’t seen each other since Halloween.”

  “You better not be playing me,” he threatened again and walked off backstage.

  Four minutes later he returned followed by Old Man Johnson. “Rodney, so good to see you again. After our little performance, you made the trip. Bravo! You came all this way to see me tonight?” He laughed.

  “I didn’t know I was seeing you. I looked down at the Playbill and saw your face. It seems impossible,” I blurted excitedly.

  “Now Rodney, this is Broadway. Nothing is impossible. Where are you sitting?”

  “Up behind that pipe. Up there, near the ceiling,” I pointed.

  “Nonsense! Is the executive box still available?” he asked the usher.

  “Yes, but we’re saving it. Brad Pitt is supposedly stopping by.”

  “I don’t care who you’re saving it for. Fix up my boy Rodney with those seats.”

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson.”

  “I’m here with my aunt,” I told him.

  “Well, the whole executive box is yours.” Some people had spotted him and were beginning to crowd around us. “I had better bid you farewell before I’m late for my first scene.”

  “Good luck,” I shouted.

  “In this biz we say, ‘Break a leg.’”

  “Okay, then break a leg!”

  I walked off with the usher. When we got to my aunt, I leaned over and whispered, “Ready to see where we are?” At first Sir Snottingham wouldn’t get up and just stared straight ahead, but when he saw my aunt take my hand, he followed us pretty quickly—all the way to a private box where everything was covered in red velvet overlooking the stage.

  “My, these seats are absolutely spectacular. Aren’t they, Edward?” my aunt asked.

  After a long pause, I heard what sounded like a dog snarling and noticed Snottingham pulling on his mustache.

  My aunt continued. “I said, ‘I think these are the finest seats in the house.’ Don’t you agree, Edward?”

  “Yeah, Ed,” I chimed in, “influential people like me know how to get things done. Wouldn’t you agree? Look, we can even see backstage.” By now he was furiously twisting both ends of his mustache at once. “Do you see Victor Johnson waving to us?” I wasn’t lying. He was off to the side giving us a thumbs-up. When he spotted my aunt, he made a slight bow before blowing her a kiss.

  My aunt laughed and exclaimed, “Rodney, you’re amazing. Isn’t he amazing, Edward?” It was the final straw.

  “AAAArrrghhhhhh!” he howled. I looked over at him. He had actually pulled off his mustache! He stumbled back through the opening behind the executive box and ran off, holding his mouth.

  My aunt laughed. “Oh, that Sir Edward, he’s always up to something.”

  For the next two hours we watched the show, and as the curtain dropped, my aunt turned to me. “Rodney, that was the best play I have ever seen and these are the best seats I’ve ever had in all the world. You are simply full of surprises and full of adventure. You’ll have to go to London with me next year. Oh, and I think we’ll keep it a secret from Sir Edward Snottingham. What do you say?”

  “Sounds like a plan, Aunt Evelyn,” I answered, smiling, as Victor Johnson walked onstage to thunderous applause. Like his performance, my visit to New York had been a rousing success.

  Chapter 23

  A PECULIAR SENSE OF DREAD

  I was exhausted Monday morning, and my feet still hurt from pounding the Manhattan pavement, but I felt great. I was back in Garrettsville, where I was popular at school, where Jessica seemed to like me as much as I liked her, and where I had made so many friends. Best of all, summer was only a month away. As I rode to school that morning, I looked out the window thinking that things had never been better. Little did I guess that someone even more frightening than Josh or Toby or Rocco was about to turn my life upside down for the rest of the school year.

  Walking in the hallway before class, I was busy telling the fellas of my adventures in New York when Rishi interrupted.

  “I still haven’t told you the big news. . . .”

  “Rishi, close your mouth!” It was Mrs. Lutzkraut shouting at us. “And, Rodney,” she continued, “I don’t think there’s anything special about playing hooky from school so you can run around a city.” Evidently she had been spying on our conversation. As we stood in the crowded hallway, she glanced up and waved her hand. “Mr. Feebletop, can I have a word, please?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lutzkraut. What can I do for you?”

  “Rodney,” she snapped. “Come over here.” I walked past the line of students in the hall and stood before the two of them. Mrs. Lutzkraut’s eyes twinkled slightly before she began. “Mr. Feebletop, it has just come to my attention that Mr. Rathbone here was absent Friday to go on vacation. I thought you ought to know about it, since you’ve been trying to enforce a strict attendance policy.”

  Mr. Feebletop sighed and looked like he was upset that he had to deal with this. “Mrs. Lutzkraut is right, Rodney. Attendance is an issue.”

  Mrs. Lutzkraut interrupted, “What do you intend to do, Mr. Feebletop?”

  He looked down at me and shook his head. “You know, Rodney, we just got over the basketball incident with Mrs. Whiner.”

  Again Lutzkraut interrupted. “Mr. Feebletop, on the phone his mother distinctly said he had laryngitis. She lied to me. . . .”

  “I wish you had laryngitis!” my mouth exploded. It just came out. I didn’t like anyone calling my mom a liar.

  “Unacceptable, Rodney!” Mr. Feebletop yelled. It was the first time I had seen him mad like that and I knew I was in for it. “Go to my office right now.” He turned and stormed off toward the lobby.

  Mrs. Lutzkraut gave me a sickening smirk as she led the class toward room 217.

  “That was dumb, Rodney,” Jessica whispered as she walked by. “Now you’ll probably miss all the fun end-of-year events coming up.”

  “Jessica!” Mrs. Lutzkraut hollered. Jessica didn’t look up to reply. She just tucked her head down and hightailed it, leaving me alone.

  Mr. Feebletop was swiveling in his chair, looking back at his picture of Tom Seaver. When I came in, he turned around and had a stern look on his face. “Rodney, you should know better. You must be respectful to adults. You crossed the line and did it right in front of me.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Feebletop. Sometimes my mouth kind of acts on its own.”

  “Yes, well, a big mouth gets you into trouble, and before we discuss what you said, we should talk about your little vacation. There’s plenty of time in the summer to go away. It’s not acceptable to just pick up, pretend you’re sick, and shoot off. . . .”

  “I know,” I explained, “but I had a chance to visit my great-aunt in New York. She bought tickets for me and some friends to see the Mets at Citi Field.”

  Suddenly he was on his feet, practically leaning over the desk. “You saw the Mets?”

  “Yep. It was awesome. And I kind of got you a souvenir.”

  “Souvenir?” He tried to keep a straight face but I noticed a faint smile begin to appear.

  “I got you this.”

  I reached into my jacket pocket and flipped him the baseball. He caught it, examined it, and fell back in his seat with a gasp. His hands began shaking. Then I noticed his eyes start to tear up. He opened his mouth to speak but could form no words. Finally, after hyperventilating for a bit, he cleared his throat and read, “‘To my greatest fan, Mr. Feebletop. All the best! Tom Seaver’.”

  “I knew you would like it,” I told him, “but I’m sorry I had to give it to you today, I mean, after getting you mad and everything. I really am sorry for mouthing off
like that in the hallway.”

  “Well, Rodney, I know these things happen,” he said, regaining a bit of his composure, “and I know you feel bad. Let me think about a punishment. Right now, though, I have to address the school regarding field day. I think you’ll like what you hear. Despite today’s, um, unfortunate incident, I made a decision last week that involves you, and I am going to stick to it. Now hurry back to homeroom. And Rodney . . .”

  “Yes, Mr. Feebletop?”

  “Was Tom Seaver nice? Did you tell him about me? Did he mention Eddie Kranepool . . .”

  “Mr. Feebletop,” a secretary called from the door, “the announcements.”

  “Oh, quite so. Now, where was I?”

  I walked into class and sat down at my desk. Seeing me, Mrs. Lutzkraut flashed a twisted grin. “Rodney, I’ve just finished telling the class that next Friday is field day, and that participation is a privilege. Not everybody needs to participate.” She wasn’t finished. Armed with the knowledge that she’d finally gotten me, and thoroughly enjoying the moment, she twirled a sharp pencil around between her fingers. “I think on field day, while you’re sitting in the principal’s office, it would be a good time for you to write an essay about responsibility.” She was sure Mr. Feebletop had suspended me from participating. The next thing I heard was his voice on the loudspeaker.

  “Good morning, Baber! What a glorious morning!” Mrs. Lutzkraut stared at the speaker with a smile as he continued. “I wanted to make a few announcements before the morning pledge. As most of you already know, next Friday is field day. The school will be divided by class into two teams, white and blue. The following classes are on the white team. . . .” He rattled off a list. We were on the blue team. Then he continued. “This year we have a special treat for one class of the winning team. This year it’s Ms. Dearing’s class for the white and Mrs. Lutzkraut’s for the blue. The winner of field day will be going to . . . Super Adventure amusement park!” The class erupted into a cheer. I wasn’t really sure what Super Adventure was, but I noticed Jessica was clapping and Rishi was practically jumping to the ceiling.

  “Rodney! That’s the big news I’ve been trying to tell you. My mom’s on the PTA field day committee, and . . .”