Sidetracked

by Diana Harmon Asher

  Then Grandpa spots another man. He’s sitting at a table by himself. When I look at him, and then back at the ROMEOs, I can’t help thinking that Sunshine Senior Living isn’t that different from middle school. There’s the cool table. The popular kids. Then there’s the guy sitting alone.

  Grandpa motions for me to follow him and we go over there.

  “Eddie,” he says.

  Eddie looks up. “Fred, they found you,” he says, smiling. “I hear they called the FBI.”

  “I turned myself in. I didn’t like life on the run,” says Grandpa. He shakes Eddie’s hand and then pushes me forward. “This is my grandson, Joseph.” Eddie reaches out a bony hand and I shake it. I think it’s going to feel cold and dry, but it’s actually strong and warm. “Joseph is sheltering me for the time being, but what do you say we find ourselves a nice bachelor pad and live it up in our declining years?”

  Eddie’s smile fades a little and he shakes his head.

  “Eddie,” Grandpa says, sitting next to him, “I know you’re missing Emily. When Sophie died, my heart broke in a million pieces. I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep. But we have to live.”

  “I’m living, I’m living,” says Eddie. “I like the food. And there’s a tai chi class that really gets the blood pumping.” He stretches one arm out and dangles the other over his head.

  Grandpa is about to answer, but then I see his eyebrows go up as a chubby little woman with a walker charges toward us. If I’m right, and the ROMEOs are the cool kids and Eddie is the loner, then here comes the Mean Girl.

  “I’ll see you later, Eddie,” says Grandpa. He stands up to go, but it’s too late.

  “It’s him!” says the lady, pointing a shaky finger. She’s moving pretty fast for a lady with a walker. “It’s him! Schatzkis from Atlantic City. Two hours we waited, but Mr. Big Shot didn’t show.”

  “Joey,” Grandpa says, “follow me.” We head out the nearest door, scoot around the corner, and hurry down a hallway. We can hear the woman’s voice, but her walker doesn’t even have wheels, so I’m pretty sure we can outrun her. On our left is the men’s room, and we duck in.

  There’s a man standing at the urinal, but he doesn’t turn around. I think we’ve gotten away. But a second later the door opens and it’s her.

  “Oh, you think you can hide!” she yells. “Think again, Mr. Big Shot! Thinks he’s too good for the Sunshine group. Has to go off on his own in Atlantic City and leave the chaperone thinking he’s dead!”

  The skinny lady from the front has followed her in. “Mrs. Fligle. Please,” she says. “This is the men’s room.”

  “Let this alter cocker drop his pants and see if I bat an eyelash. He kept us all waiting two hours in Atlantic City.”

  “I know, Mrs. Fligle. We all know.” She gives Grandpa a look. “But there’s another gentleman in here . . .”

  “Deaf as a post,” says Mrs. Fligle. “He doesn’t even know we’re here.” I guess she’s right, because the man still hasn’t turned to look. Now he’s moved over to wash his hands.

  “It’s still the men’s room,” says the skinny lady. “And Mr. Schatzkis is just here to pick up some things. He’s not staying. Right, Mr. Schatzkis?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Grandpa.

  “If I were you, I’d stay out of here for good!” snaps Mrs. Fligle. “Don’t stay where you’re not wanted!”

  Grandpa looks a little like I do when I’m trying not to mind. But I can see him flinch as Mrs. Fligle hurls those words at him. The fact is, even if you don’t want to go to their stupid party, it makes you feel bad to know you’re not invited. At least in middle school, they whisper behind your back. Here, they just blurt it right out to your face.

  The skinny lady finally eases Mrs. Fligle out the door, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “I guess mean girls get even meaner when they grow up,” I say to Grandpa.

  The man who’s been washing his hands finally turns around. “Your grandson?” he asks.

  Grandpa nods and says, “Joseph.”

  “Eh?” says the man.

  “Joseph!” Grandpa yells.

  “He’s a smart boy,” he says, and shuffles his way out of the bathroom. It’s not something I hear very often. I smile and wave.

  Grandpa peeks out the bathroom door and motions for me to follow him. We scurry into the elevator, and when we come out on the second floor we go straight to his room. I stand guard outside while he’s getting his laptop, just in case Mrs. Fligle tries to hunt him down again.

  When Grandpa comes out, he stops for a second and looks down the hallway. It’s decorated with soft-colored paintings, all light blues and pinks and peaches. They’re the kind of colors that tell you everything’s fine. Or, as my mother says, “Just fine.” The floors are the color of watery lemonade and there’s a handrail along the wall.

  It doesn’t seem like a place for Grandpa. The house he lived in with Grandma had a bright red checkered sofa and a flowery rug and walls covered in pine. I wonder if he’s remembering that, too. Whatever he’s thinking, it takes him a minute before he turns and shuts the door to his room with a thunk.

  Then he turns to me. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s split this joint.”

  As we wave to the skinny lady at the front desk, I realize: I’ve gotten to help Grandpa with his jailbreak after all.

  Chapter 13

  The first thing I do when I get to the Resource Room the next morning is tell Mrs. T why I had to miss practice yesterday. She says something about family coming first, but I think she knows it’s an excuse. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I might not come today, either. Or tomorrow. Or the next day.

  When I get to French, Heather doesn’t look at me. She’s busy drawing something. Just as Madame Labelle starts class with a big “Bonjour,” Heather holds up the notebook so I can see.

  It’s me, as a chicken.

  “I am not a chicken!” I blurt out.

  “Monsieur! Mademoiselle!” Madame Labelle calls out, using two of the few French words I know. The class is giggling.

  Then Heather looks right at Madame Labelle and starts talking. In French. I catch the words for please, which sound like “silver plate,” but the rest is a mystery to me, except for, “Friedman,” and something that sounds like “important.”

  There’s silence. Madame looks dumbfounded by all that French pouring out of Heather’s mouth. Then she motions with her hand like she’s shooing a dog away and says something that sounds like “allay.” Heather grabs me by the arm and pulls me out the door.

  Out in the hallway, I squirm away from her. “What was all that?”

  “All what?”

  “All those French sounds.”

  “I said we needed to talk.” She’s acting like it’s normal to have weird gargly stuff tumble out of your mouth like you’re from another planet.

  “So why are you in here if you know French?”

  “We did French in fifth grade, but they said it didn’t count.”

  “That’s stupid,” I say. “If—”

  “Hey!” she interrupts. “I’m not the problem here.”

  I guess that means I am.

  “Where were you yesterday? Why weren’t you at practice?”

  “I . . . I couldn’t . . . come,” I stutter.

  “One tough practice and you chicken out.” She’s looking at me with squinty eyes, like she can’t believe how useless I am.

  “I was with my grandpa,” I say, trying to convince us both that I had a good excuse. “He needed help getting stuff from his senior living place.” Then I throw in what I hope will impress her or distract her or both. “He just got out of jail.”

  She isn’t impressed or distracted.

  “Did you tell him you had practice?”

  I pause long enough for her to know that the answer is no.

  “You know you need ten practices to qualify for the first meet. Coach told us, or didn’t you hear?”

  “Ten prac
tices?” I say. Of course I didn’t hear. Add it to the list.

  “You can’t just skip one because you’re tired, or scared, or . . .”

  “I wasn’t scared.”

  Heather looks at me like she knows the truth. But ten practices? Maybe that’s the answer. If I can’t make ten practices, I can’t be on the team. I just have to think up why I can’t. Then I have it.

  “Oh, no,” I say. “Hebrew school! I can’t possibly make ten practices. I have Hebrew school starting next week. I’ll have to miss Wednesdays, so . . .”

  “We get Wednesdays off,” Heather says. “You can still make ten practices, without Wednesdays.”

  I try to think of some other excuse. Homework? Grandpa? Goose poop allergy? But what comes out is the truth. “What if I don’t want to? What if I don’t want to run in the first race? What if I don’t want to be on the team?”

  “Fine,” she says with a slow blink. “Quitter.”

  “I’m not a quitter,” I say, even though that’s exactly what I seem to be.

  “It sounds to me like you are. A chicken quitter.” She’s turning to go back into the classroom.

  “But I stink,” I say, probably too loud. “I stink at running, like I stink at everything else.”

  Heather turns around. “You’ve only been to one practice. You haven’t even tried,” she says.

  “I have, too.”

  “Then try harder.”

  “I can’t try any harder!” I yell at her. “You know how many times I’ve heard that? Every year, every teacher. ‘You’ve got to try harder, Joseph.’ ‘You’re not working hard enough, Joseph.’ I work and I try all the time, and I never get better at anything. All that happens is that I stay terrible and everybody makes fun of me.”

  “Nobody was making fun of you,” says Heather.

  “Oh yeah? Go have a banana, Joseph. Go eat an orange!” I know I must sound like a maniac. I’m surprised doors aren’t flying open up and down the hallway.

  “That wasn’t making fun,” she says.

  “Yeah? What was it, then?”

  She sighs. “You had a stitch, right?”

  “A what?”

  “A stitch. That pain in your side.”

  I remember now, that’s what Mrs. T called it. “Yeah.”

  “Your potassium level was low. Your body was working really hard and that’s what happens. You get a stitch. I’ve had them, too. Lots of times. Bananas have potassium. That’s why I told you to eat a banana.”

  “Oh,” I say. I feel really stupid.

  “Oranges, too,” she adds. I feel even stupider.

  “But go ahead and quit if it’s too hard.” Then she mumbles, “Let everybody down.”

  “Who am I letting down?” Then I add, “Besides myself,” thinking she’s giving me that old line.

  “The whole team,” she says. “I guess that’s another thing you didn’t hear Coach say. The athletic department won’t run the program unless we have ten kids. Not that I care if it’s you,” she adds, “it’s just that you happen to be number ten. But if you want to give up, go ahead. We’ll find someone else.”

  Then she stares hard at me and says, “I wasn’t expecting much from you, Friedman, but I was expecting more than that.”

  I feel my mouth open, but nothing comes out. Not only was she not teasing me, she was expecting something. Even if it wasn’t much, she was actually expecting something from me.

  “Mademoiselle, Monsieur.” Madame Labelle is sticking her head out into the hallway. “Silver plate.”

  “Oui, Madame,” says Heather. Then she says something else in French to Madame Labelle and turns back to me. “That means, ‘We’re finished,’” she says.

  Madame Labelle goes back inside, but she leaves the door open. I’m weighing my options: Running vs. not running. Pain, failure, and humiliation vs. rejection. Right now, rejection feels the worst.

  “I can still make the ten practices? Before the first meet?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “Okay,” I blurt out. “I’ll try.”

  “All right.” She whacks me on the arm and I try to smile. “By the way, what was your grandpa in jail for?”

  I consider telling her that he’s an outlaw-bank-robber-wanted-by-the-FBI jewel thief. Instead, I say, “He left his senior living group in Atlantic City. He went to Caesar’s.”

  She nods. “Nice.”

  I follow her back into French class and sit down. Like it or not, I’m back on the team, with nine more practices to go. And that’s just to get to the starting line.

  Chapter 14

  I start a running diary. It looks like this:

  Practice 1—Goose poop. Pain in side. Lost in the woods.

  Practice 2—Sunshine Senior Living (missed practice).

  Practice 3—Back to practice. Ran the course again. Goose poop has been cleared, but stitch came back. Collapsed on hill.

  Practice 4—Rain. Mud eats my shoe.

  Practice 5—Coach’s advice—go straight instead of weaving around like a drunk. Harder than it seems.

  Practice 6—Up White Oak hill twice. Did not die, but close.

  Practice 7—More rain. Worms on track. Coach T lets me run on grass instead of on the worms, so I don’t throw up.

  That’s all the diary writing I can do. Mrs. T—she’s still Mrs. T in the Resource Room—always tells us that when we do something that doesn’t come out so well, we should think about what we learned from the experience. What I’ve learned from keeping a running diary is that I’m not good at diary writing. Those diary books with the stick drawings look easy to do, but they’re not. When I try to draw stick figures, they look like stick figures. I can’t make them look like they have feelings.

  If I could, I’d show my stick figure looking exhausted, frustrated, and slow.

  But diary or no diary, I somehow finish my tenth practice and qualify for our first meet. Not that I’m convinced this is totally a good thing.

  When that last practice finally ends, Coach T turns to Sammy. “Oh, I almost forgot, Sammy,” she says. “What was it that you kept asking me about? Was it uniforms?”

  Sammy’s eyes open wide. “Yes!” he shouts.

  “Then follow me,” says Coach T.

  She leads us toward the teachers’ parking lot, which is up the concrete stairs and across the practice field. Even though the stair monster tries to tip me backward into its waiting jaws, I hang on to the railing and pull myself up, cracked step by cracked step. My shoelace comes undone around step number nine, but I push on to the top. I stop to tie it, and when I look up, the rest of the team is already across the field.

  Ahead, to my left, the football team is running a drill. They’re in two lines facing each other, and one by one they run to the middle of the field and smash in the center. Then they stagger back in line to wait their turns to do it again. Even though I know that the kids inside the shoulder pads and helmets are guys like Charlie Kastner, and I really don’t care what happens to his head or his shoulders or anything else, I can’t help flinching each time they crash.

  I walk by, grateful that they’re too busy smashing into each other to notice me.

  Coach Papasian looks very content. The louder the crunch, the happier he is. He claps his hands together and nods and calls out, “Attaway!”

  To my right, I catch sight of a bee, buzzing around the clover flowers in the grass. It’s one of those really fat, fuzzy, yellow-and-black bumblebees. I read somewhere that they don’t sting unless you annoy them, but since I don’t know what this particular bumblebee would find to be annoying, I won’t get too close. The bee is so peaceful, especially compared to the smashing and crunching going on at the football practice. I crouch down to see it better. It’s beautiful, the way it sits on one little toasted marshmallow of a flower, sucks out some nectar, and floats on to the next.

  The bee is happily drinking when clomp, a foot lands on it. A big, terrible foot in a dirty, cleated football shoe. I jump t
o my feet.

  “Friedman,” says Charlie Kastner. I guess getting thwacked in the middle of the field isn’t enough to keep him from wobbling over here, after all. “Hey Friedman! You watching grass grow or something?”

  I’m staring at his shoe. The bee is under there. A minute ago it was all carefree, flower hopping, and now it’s another of Charlie’s victims.

  “Friedman, I’m talking to you.”

  I don’t even look up at his helmet-framed face. I try to channel my energy into some interspecies SOS, signaling the bee’s friends to come in an angry swarm and chase Charlie away. A thousand bees. A thousand stings.

  I picture that poor bee, suffocating or, worse yet, squashed. Before I even think what I’m doing, I nudge Charlie’s shoe with my toe. He doesn’t move, and I nudge it again. Finally, the shoe lifts up and like a miracle, the bee flies away. It must’ve been stuck in the grass, hiding between cleats, not smashed at all, just trapped.

  Free! It’s free. But my urge to rejoice is zapped when I realize that Charlie is staring at me in disbelief.

  “Did you just kick me?” he says. I look for the bee. Maybe it knows I’m its hero and is staging a sneak attack. But no, it’s gone. “Answer me, Friedman. Did you just kick me? You did, didn’t you? You kicked my foot. Are you actually picking a fight with me?”

  The answer is so obviously, so emphatically no that I can’t even get it out of my mouth.

  “Well, I’m impressed, Friedman. Really. I’m so impressed, I’ll give you the first punch. For free.”

  “Get back in line, Kastner!” calls Coach Papasian, but there’s no way Charlie is going anywhere.

  “Frappaolo over there just gave me a good hit, got it started for you. Now’s your chance. Punch me. Go on, punch me. Right here in the stomach. You get a free shot.”

  I don’t know what to do. A bunch of the guys on the football team are watching now. If I run away, they’ll tell the whole school. I look at Charlie’s stomach, and I know I’ll regret it, but I throw out my fist as hard as I can.

  My hand socks right into something hard and plastic, which hurts like crazy. Then Charlie pushes forward, so even as I punch him I’m getting thrown backward, and before I know it I’m on the ground and half the football team is doubled over with laughter.