by Sally Warner
We shuffle our feet a little, trying it out.
“‘E’ is for eyes on the target. Not eyes on the ball,” Coach continues. “Keep that in mind no matter what you do in life.”
Okay. That’s not confusing.
“The second ‘E’ is for elbows,” Coach tells us. “Keep them down, right beneath the hand that’s going to throw the ball. No flappy chicken wings allowed,” he says, demonstrating.
Of course, this sets off a flurry of chicken wing flapping, which Coach ignores.
“And ‘F’ is for follow-through,” he says. “You keep that arm up there after you throw, like it’s still doing its business. You don’t waggle your arm around while the ball is still in the air. Let that ball know you care. Commit!”
I care! I care!
But—“BEEF.” I’ll never remember what those letters stand for, I think, frowning. Not that and how to do subtraction word problems, understand negative numbers, and memorize random, goofy plurals.
Not to mention trying to figure out how to watch out for Alfie, so she doesn’t turn into the world’s tiniest bully again.
And worrying about poor old peace-and-quiet Marco.
And guarding against payback.
My brain is already full, yo.
“Got that?” Coach shouts as the buzzer sounds.
“Got it,” we yell back.
And I just hope somebody means it.
Because then maybe they can explain it to me.
21
PAYBACK TIME
At afternoon recess, Marco sticks by my side as I rush down the hall toward an exit door. We pass the kindergartner’s display of handprints on cutout hearts. I guess they’re for Valentine’s Day. We pass the fifth- and sixth-graders’ combined display for Black History Month.
“What’s your hurry?” Marco asks, tugging at my sweatshirt sleeve to slow me down. “Coach probably isn’t even gonna be out there, so we can play whatever we want. Something fun for a change.” He pats his pants pocket in a promising way.
“But I want to play basketball so I can get better,” I tell him. “Only I can’t even remember what ‘BEEF’ stands for.”
“I dunno. I wasn’t paying attention,” Marco says, shrugging as the cool outside air hits our faces. “But are you sure you wanna play basketball?” he asks, slowing down even more. “Some of the guys just make up new rules when Coach isn’t around, and you know it. It can get crazy out there.”
He’s right. Remember Jared’s football-style charge through the basketball players on Monday? It’s like the more rules we learn, the faster we want to throw them all away when Coach isn’t with us.
As if it might be our last chance in life just to be goofy kids having fun.
“But listen, maybe give basketball a try?” I say to Marco, not looking at him. “I can get hold of a ball, and we can practice. Just you and me. It’ll be cool.”
“I dunno,” Marco says, shrugging. “I’ll think about it.”
That’s usually his way of saying “No.”
“You won’t even notice the noise and stuff. Not once you start having fun,” I say, hoping it’s true. “Remember when Coach said, ‘Good effort, buddy!’ this morning? He was talkin’ to you, Marco!”
“I’ll think about it,” Marco says again. But he’s smiling this time.
Hey, maybe I’m coaching Marco and Alfie!
“Yo, dog,” Diego is saying to Jason as Marco and I get near. Jason is messing around and making funny faces as he dribbles one of the best balls we have—a new basketball. Just looking at it, I can almost feel its promising little bumps. Smell its serious smell.
“Respect,” the ball seems to call out to me. “Being good at a sport. This is how you get there, dude!”
“I’ll give you my snack if you let me have the ball for five minutes. I wanna practice my dribbling,” Diego tells Jason. Marco gives me a look, then heads off toward the picnic tables.
I’ll catch him later when I snag a ball for us.
“I’m thinkin’ about it,” Jason tells Diego.
“Can I have the ball after you finish with it?” I ask Diego. “I’m trying to get Marco to start playing more. I think he kind of wants to.”
Diego tilts his head, and he gives me a curious look. “You’re a good dude, EllRay,” he says. “And a good friend, too.”
“You guys,” Jason says. “You gotta get the ball first, don’t forget.”
“Okay. EllRay will give you his snack, too,” Diego says, making the deal even sweeter for Jason.
Jason—who is chunky but “mostly muscle,” remember—loves food.
You’re not supposed to trade snacks at Oak Glen Primary School because of allergies. But nobody in our class is allergic to anything serious—except for Marco being allergic to basketball, I mean. And to noise.
“Huh,” Jason snort-says, trying to walk in a circle around the ever-bouncing ball the way Coach does. “EllRay probably already ate his snack,” Jason says. “And I bet you have something weird, Diego. So thanks, but no thanks. I’ll keep the ball.”
The afternoon sun shines through Jason’s ears from behind, turning them pink.
Diego turns to me. “You really want it?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Like I said, it’s for Marco.”
Diego thinks fast. “Okay, so no snack,” he tells Jason. “But I have money.” He pats his front pants pocket. “And money buys candy, doesn’t it?”
“Dog,” I whisper to Diego, tugging at him. “You’re not supposed to bring money to school.”
“It’s for phone calls,” Diego tells me, even though that doesn’t make much sense. There aren’t any pay phones here. Some of us kids have cell phones, even in third grade. But we have to hand them in at the office each morning and pick them up again from Miss Myrna when it’s time to leave.
Life gets complicated here at Oak Glen Primary School.
I think maybe Diego just likes having money clank around in his pocket.
“Money?” Jason says, interested. His bouncing slows. “How much you got?”
“Dollar fifty,” Diego tells him. “Six quarters, yo.”
Geez! That’s kind of a lot!
“Here ya go, loser,” Jason says after Diego has handed over the silver coins.
We’re not allowed to say “loser” at Oak Glen Primary School. That breaks another rule. But by some amazing miracle, the word escapes Jason’s mouth anyway.
Go figure.
Diego smiles, then tosses me the ball. “Props to you, dude,” he tells me.
“Thanks,” I say, surprised.
I take a deep breath and check my stance, moving my weight to the front of my feet, up by my toes. Maybe I’ll begin dribbling my way toward Marco. But first I have to get into the rhythm of the thing before someone swats the ball away from me and Diego’s money is wasted.
“Hey! EllRay’s got the good ball,” I hear Jared’s boomy voice call out from way across the playground.
“Let’s go get it,” Stanley shouts back. “Let’s go get him. Grab Kevin,” he yells to Jared.
Uh-oh.
Payback time.
22
SWISH SHOT!
I pivot, trying to figure out what to do next, because—are Jared, Stanley, and Kevin gonna just charge me? Knock me down like a bowling pin? Pile on and start pounding? All three of them? They might get in trouble for it, sure. But I don’t think they care, at this point. And there’s no one around to stop them.
Diego always says he’s a thinker, not a fighter. And we respect that.
But that means he won’t be much help in this situation.
Corey would try to help me if he was nearby, but he’s not. He’s even farther away than the three payback guys are. And it’s like Corey is made out of pipe cleaners, compared to the way giga
ntic Jared Matthews is built. Jared is almost like a sixth-grader. Or at least one-and-a-half third-graders.
What is his gripe against me, anyway? Who knows? I can’t even remember what happened this morning, much less two days ago, when Jared first got mad at me. I just remember his threat to get even.
I keep dribbling the ball the way Coach taught us to, but I gotta go somewhere! I can hear six big feet pounding their way toward me.
“Run!” Diego says, like he’s reminding me to do some chore I forgot.
“Hey,” Corey shouts from way behind Jared, Stanley, and Kevin.
So at least he knows what’s going on.
But to turn around and get to Corey, and the chance of safety, I’d have to run all the way across the playground, and then plow through Jared, Stanley, and Kevin—if and when I could get that far.
Me, EllRay Jakes. The smallest kid in Ms. Sanchez’s third grade class. With the shortest legs.
And that’s not gonna happen.
Forget about dribbling the ball, I decide in one quick second. We’re not even playing a game, here! This is about survival.
So I tuck the basketball under my arm and just start running, like Diego told me to do—toward Marco and the picnic tables. It’s like I don’t have a choice.
Marco has been digging in his pockets—for some of the plastic figures he has sneaked to school, probably. They always seem to calm him down when kids yell.
Marco “Mr. Yeah But” Adair could probably come up with ten reasons why me racing over to him in the middle of a disaster like this is not a good idea. After all, what is about to happen to me is the exact opposite of the peace and quiet he loves. But I’m doing it anyway.
I have nowhere else to go!
“Marco! Catch,” I say, and I throw him the basketball without thinking.
And Marco flings his hands up in the air—more to make me stay away than to catch the ball, I think. A couple of plastic knights go flying.
“Cheater!” an angry voice shouts. It still sounds far away, but it’s getting closer.
I think it’s Jared.
“Yeah! You didn’t dribble, so that was traveling,” Kevin yells, like we are playing a real basketball game. Not like they’re about to gang up on me for no reason.
But Marco already has the ball in his hands. He is staring at it in horror. It’s like he is holding a giant tarantula instead of a basketball.
What have I done? I dragged Marco into this—just when he was thinking about joining in the so-called fun! Now, he’ll never want to play.
Some coach I turned out to be!
“Just throw it to them, Marco,” I manage to say, panting out the words as I reach the picnic table. “Maybe that’ll make ’em happy.”
It won’t, though. They’re after me now. Not the basketball.
And they’re getting closer.
Okay, I gotta say that I am really dreading what will happen next. I can just picture it.
1. Jared will tackle me, and I’ll end up face-down on the muddy grass while he grinds his fist into my ribs. I can almost already smell his peanut-buttery breath on my face.
2. Stanley will probably start tickling my armpits. He knows I hate that!
3. And Kevin will just pile on, smooshing me flat.
The point is, this is not gonna be fun.
And on top of everything else, I will have to explain my dirty clothes to Mom—and maybe even Dad—without tattling on anyone! Because tattling would just start some big thing here at Oak Glen Primary School. It has happened before.
Phone calls. Worried parents. Boring meetings. Who knows what.
I’m standing here with my mind racing, but Marco is frozen.
“Oh, give it here,” I say to Marco, holding out my hands as I prepare to meet my doom. “It’s okay. I got you into this, dog.”
“Thanks,” Marco says, looking surprised. “You’d do that for me?”
“Sure,” I say. He had to ask?
And instead of passing me the ball, Marco aims toward a trash can wa-a-y over by the girls’ table. He pauses, and then—swish shot!
A swish shot is when the ball goes right through the hoop without even touching the rim.
In other words, perfection.
“Two points!” I shout, congratulating Marco with a high-five just as Jared, Kevin, and Stanley arrive at the picnic table, red-faced, angry, and out of breath.
“Dude,” Stanley screams at Marco. “You threw our brand-new ball in the garbage? With all the cooties from lunch? And the dirty Kleenexes and girl germs? There’s flies in there, and maybe even bees!”
Stanley has always been scared of bees. When one buzzes into Ms. Sanchez’s class, forget about it.
“Let’s make him get it out,” a scowling Jared says to Stanley and Kevin. “And then let’s make him lick it clean!”
“Oh, yeah? You and whose army?” I say, because to my surprise, Corey, Major, Nate, and Diego are here, too.
And nobody’s going to be licking anything clean.
Marco moves a small step closer to me. I can feel him getting braver by the second—maybe because of this added show of support.
“But EllRay and Marco wrecked our whole recess,” Jared tells everyone, forgetting he’s the guy who started all this. “They gotta pay.”
“They’re gonna pay,” Stanley insists, his voice way too loud.
I sneak a look at quiet-loving Marco. Is he about to keel over from all the noise and drama? He seems okay. But—“Use your indoors voices,” I tell everyone, quoting Mom when she’s talking to my noisy sister, Alfie.
Maybe I can still help Marco a little, at least!
“I’m okay, EllRay,” Marco whispers to me. “Really.”
“Use our indoors voices?” Jared shouts at me, sounding like he can’t believe his ears. “But we’re outdoors!”
“He’s got a point, EllRay,” Diego says in his common-sense way. “We are outside, you gotta admit.”
And I can’t help it, I start to laugh. This happens to me sometimes—usually at the worst possible moment.
But Kevin starts to laugh, too. And so do Corey and Nate and Major and Stanley.
Even Marco is smiling. He has started picking up his scattered knights like he’s on an Easter egg hunt, but I can see the grin.
Only Jared still wants to drag out the fight. “We can’t let them get away with this,” he informs his giggling posse. And he actually stamps his foot—like a two-year-old!
I crack up all over again.
“Oh, give it a rest, dog,” Nate says to Jared in his usual easy way. “It’s over.”
“Well, I’m not getting the ball,” Jared roars.
And so Marco and I fish the basketball out of the girls’ trash can, brushing off banana peels and bologna sandwich crusts—just as the end-of-recess buzzer sounds.
Marco and I are not afraid of bees. Well, not as bad as Stanley, anyway.
And P. S., I tell myself as I walk back to class with Marco, Corey, and the rest of my friends: I don’t think recess was wrecked at all. Not when I look at the way Marco is walking. He’s feeling good.
And I’m standing pretty tall, too!
Recess was awesome.
23
REBOUND
“Suzette is having fun right now,” Alfie announces in a gloomy voice from her perch on the living room sofa. She likes to part the front curtains an inch or two at night, kneel backward on the center cushion, and “keep an eye on things,” as Mom puts it.
In other words, spy.
It is a rainy Friday night, and Alfie’s correct. Suzette’s sleepover is probably going great.
Well, that’s okay. Alfie can rebound.
“Rebound” means two things, Coach explained that day when he showed us how to do a layup. It means catching the basketb
all if it misses going into the basket. You get it “on the rebound.”
But he said the same word also describes how a person can bounce back after something bad happens.
“You know what?” I ask Alfie.
“This better not be a joke,” she says without looking at me.
“It’s not,” I promise her. “I was just gonna say that everything will be over by Monday, and then things can get back to normal with you and Suzette. That’s how it works sometimes, being friends with someone,” I add, like I’m coaching her again.
“Huh,” Alfie says, clearly not convinced.
And then, “He’s here!” she shouts, her voice surprisingly loud for someone her size. She flings herself off the sofa, soft black braids bouncing, and Mom’s throw pillows go flying.
But who cares? Dad’s home!
“I have some surprises for you nice people,” Dad tells us after finishing his last bite of mashed potatoes. He takes a sip of ice water in his slow, thoughtful way, then places his barely used napkin on the table.
My own napkin looks like it got into a fight with the gravy jug—and lost.
“Surprises?” Alfie says, sounding suspicious. “They’re not surprises that mean we can’t watch a movie and cuddle, are they? They’re not surprises that mean company is coming over, but they don’t have kids?”
“No. It’s just us tonight,” Dad assures her as I start clearing the table. “First comes Mom, our brilliant chef,” he says, getting up from his chair and heading past me toward the back hall.
“Mom always comes first,” Alfie half grumbles.
But in my opinion, I think that’s the way things should be. Mom is like the queen of our family.
“Ta-da!” Dad says, handing Mom her big, soft-looking present. See, Dad told me once that he thinks presents are more fun when they are a total surprise. “Here you go, Louise. I hope you like it.”
“Oh, Warren. Thanks,” Mom says.
“Ooh,” Alfie says, her eyes wide. Mom’s present is a beautiful, soft blanket with long fringe, the kind you cover yourself with while you’re watching TV. “Can I use it during the movie?” she asks, combing the fringe with her fingers.