Sidetracked

by Diana Harmon Asher

  “She didn’t believe you?”

  “Nope.” Grandpa leans closer and whispers, like even now he’s afraid somebody will overhear and tell on him. “Mrs. Offerman was a nasty old coot. But your grandma sat up straight and she said, ‘Freddie’s book is missing that page.’ Well, Mrs. Offerman didn’t like that. Especially since Sophie forgot to raise her hand. She gave us both a look, but your grandma just said it again. ‘Freddie doesn’t have that page.’ And Mrs. Offerman sent her out of the room. Out to the hallway! I’d been there a million times, but her, never. And she did it for me!”

  For a minute, Grandpa almost looks like he’s eight years old again, like he’s still in love with that little girl who became my grandma.

  “So you knew even then?” I ask.

  “I didn’t know that we’d be married. I had to hope and sweat and worry first. We all have to do that. It’s part of being young. It goes with having a future. Now . . .” He waves his hand in the direction of the kitchen and the laptop. “All that computer nonsense. It’s pretending, really. I’m not going to find another Sophie.”

  I don’t know what to say. As creepy as Vintage Cupid is, at least it’s something. I don’t want Grandpa to be sad and I don’t want him to give up.

  “Hey, Grandpa,” I say, “do you remember that time when you took me to basketball practice?”

  “With Mr. Cowboy Boots in charge?” he says.

  “Yeah. And remember how you told me not to quit?” Grandpa nods. “Well, you shouldn’t quit, either. I bet you can find somebody—not like Grandma—but, someone.” He still doesn’t look convinced, so I take a breath and put on a sterner voice and say, “And I don’t think Grandma would want you to be sitting around kvetching and grepsing. Do you?”

  Finally, Grandpa smiles. He sort of half pats, half grabs and shakes my shoulder. “Joseph, you’re right. No, she wouldn’t.”

  It crosses my mind to mention Mrs. Fishbein. But really, what could she talk about with Grandpa? School? Books? The Dewey Decimal system?

  Grandpa stands and sends the chair rocking. I nearly fall off the recliner’s arm. “I’m going to take a walk,” he says. “Maybe I’ll go down to the store and get myself a bar of soap. And then, who knows? Maybe I’ll give Mr. Cupid another try.”

  I sit in the recliner for a minute after he’s gone. Then I go to my room. I get on the floor and do some push-ups, and then some sit-ups. It still hurts, but I can do ten more than when I started. I do some more push-ups and some leg raises. Those really hurt. Enough for today.

  I go to the mirror and pull up my shirt. I look closely. At first it doesn’t look any different, but then I think I see something. I might be wrong, I probably am, but when I flex my stomach muscles, I think I see something.

  Right there. Yup.

  An ab.

  Chapter 23

  The bus that pulls up to take us to our meet at Brockton Middle School is filled with football gear. The football team has a game tomorrow and they’ve preloaded the bus, which means, for one thing, it smells horrible, and for another, we can’t spread out like we usually do. Heather doesn’t seem to mind. She looks happy to be back on a bus, going to a track meet, even if it does smell like the inside of a football cleat. I sit next to Mark, and Sanjit sits with Wes. Across the aisle, Sammy has somehow gotten up the nerve to sit with Victoria and Heather sits down next to Coach T.

  It’s a bouncy ride; when we get close, the bus turns the corner and I see Brockton Middle School up ahead. I’m not sure if it’s the turn and then the speed bump or the speed bump and then the turn, but the combination sends the bus rocking like a safari Jeep in one of those off-road commercials. Luckily my seatbelt keeps me from being catapulted like a cannonball, but not from whacking my head against the window. Twice. Brianne squeals when her water bottle flies out of her hand. Victoria gives a disgusted “Ew” and shoves Sammy, who has been happily thrown sideways into her shoulder.

  As we pull up in front of the school, I peer out the bottom half of the bus window. The top half is covered with some kind of grime I’d rather not think about. Brockton Middle School is nothing like Lakeview. Lakeview has three low buildings placed around a central courtyard, with covered breezeways, so you can walk from building to building without getting wet. Brockton is a huge stone building that looks like some kind of English castle. The front doors are dark and wooden. They must be about a foot thick, with heavy iron latches. It makes me wonder if all the kids who go in there come out at the end of the day.

  The bus makes that squeaky, exhausted ppppphhhtt sound that means we’re here. Victoria pushes her way past Sammy, but Coach T says, “Wait here, guys.”

  Coach tries all three front doors. They’re all locked. She looks up at the bus driver, who shrugs, but then a lanky kid comes around the corner and says something, pointing around the far side of the building.

  “Okay, we’re meeting around back,” she says, stepping back onto the bus. “Make sure you take your gear. Let’s go.”

  We file off and start walking around the building. I look up. There are these faces carved into the corners, looking down at me. Some look studious, some look stern, but the worst are the ones that are smiling, with open, toothless, creepy-looking mouths.

  “Gargoyles,” says Heather.

  “Huh?” I say, and she points up.

  “Those faces. That’s what they’re called.”

  Gargoyles are now officially on my list of things I’m afraid of. I’ll put them somewhere between party clowns and Mr. Peanut. I try not to look up for the rest of the walk, but even without seeing them, I know those gargoyles are watching me with their stone faces and frozen eyes.

  Finally, we get to the back lawn. The school building seems to cast its gloomy shadow over the school grounds. The air feels cold and damp, and the sky is like a big gray roll of cotton. It all gives me the shivers.

  We walk past the Brockton team lined up on the grass in their dark green singlets and shorts, stretching like they’re made out of rubber bands instead of flesh and bone. They don’t seem to feel the cold at all. They all have matching haircuts, short on the sides and brushed up in the middle, and they’re all between five foot five and five foot nine. Nobody’s fat and there’s not a pair of glasses in sight.

  “Their high school team won five state championships in the past ten years,” says Heather. Looking at this bunch, I’d say they’re prepping for at least five more.

  Brockton’s coach blows a whistle and all the Brockton kids stop stretching. They stand up so straight, I think they might salute. Their coach is stuffed into a green Brockton Bears sweatshirt and has one of those walrus mustaches that covers his mouth and makes you wonder how he eats at all. Judging from the size of his stomach, he finds a way.

  “All right, runners!” he calls out. His voice is higher than you’d expect. He sounds a little like my uncle Monty from Boston. “They tell me there might be a stawm blowin’ in . . .”

  “A what?” whispers Mark.

  “A storm,” says Heather.

  “. . . so we’re gonna skip the walk-through and get right to the race. The course is clearly marked, across the field, into the woods, and back here. If you’re not sure where to go, just follow my runners. They’ll most likely be in front of you anyway.” He chuckles at his own humor. “And with the stawm comin’, we’re going to run everybody at once: boys and girls together.”

  “Seriously?” says Brianne.

  “Sounds good to me,” says Sammy. He slides over next to Victoria.

  “Now, I expect everyone to be courteous. Although I doubt ladies will be first.”

  “Wanna bet?” mutters Heather.

  The Brockton coach looks up at the sky. The clouds are getting thicker, and the air is heavy and still. “Okay, so let’s get going!”

  All of the Brockton runners start to line up even before the ref calls out, “Everybody, line up! Boys and girls!” The ref gives a worried glance up at the sky and scratches his bald head. He�
��s standing in front of tree that looks a lot like him. Its leaves are mostly orange, but the top has already wilted and blown away.

  The girl next to me is retying her sneakers, then she re-rubber-bands her ponytail. A few places away, Heather is staring straight ahead, picking up one foot, then the other, like a horse at the starting gate.

  “And remember,” the ref shouts, “if you hear even a rumble of thunder, come straight back here. Safety first!”

  Sanjit is next to me, shaking out his arms to loosen up, and Erica is beside him, looking tiny and very nervous. Sanjit pats her on the shoulder and she smiles up at him. She definitely likes Sanjit. I see the ref raise the starting gun. I fumble around with my earplugs and manage to get them in just in time.

  Blam!

  The Brockton boys take off, and Heather is right up front with them. Wes and Sammy try to stay close, but the rest of us spread out as we go across the field. I’m pretty far back, but there are a few other slow and unfocused kids nearby, and some girls who are barely running. They’re side by side and I can hear them talking about boy bands.

  I follow the arrows chalked on the field and try not to worry about my pace or what Charlie Kastner would say if he knew that most of the girls are ahead of me. I listen for thunder, but so far there’s just the sound of feet on dirt and the coaches’ shout-outs to their runners.

  I watch as the woods swallow kids up, one by one, and I can feel the stares of those gargoyles behind me. When I finally reach the woods myself, I’m already breathing hard. Under all the trees, it’s like someone has pulled down a shade. I can hear the wind start to whistle in the bare branches above me. I wish Fox Ridge was running in this meet. It would be nice to have Heber here for company.

  I keep putting one foot ahead of the other and I can hear myself breathing. I’m starting to sweat. There’s an actual brook running through the course, and little wooden bridges that cross over and back. The sound my feet make when I cross the bridges is comforting, sort of a hollow thump, thump. The water is splashing along, making little bubbling sounds. I take a walk break and I’m almost enjoying myself, until I come around a curve where the branches thin out into spindly fingers and I can see the school building and its gargoyles. What kind of people build a place for kids with scary faces on it, anyway? When I come to the next bridge, I race across. I’m sure there’s a troll lurking underneath, waiting to pounce.

  The course starts to go uphill, and I’m trying not to trip, to just keep going and not make too much of a fool of myself. I’ve actually caught up to some of the other runners. There are maybe five of us within a few yards of each other. I make a turn, and ahead of me I see a couple of kids moving to the right side of the trail. They’re going around something that’s in the way. As I get closer I see that it’s not a something, it’s a someone.

  It’s Heather.

  She’s off to the side of the path, leaning on a tree. At first it looks like she’s just taking a breather, but Heather would never take a breather. Not in a million years. And she should be way up ahead by now.

  My heart is pumping and I’m trying to catch my breath. “What happened?” I ask, stopping next to her.

  “You’re in a race, Friedman,” she snaps. “What are you stopping for?” Now I see that her left knee is bleeding. She’s standing on her right leg, holding the hurt one up. She has a scratch on her cheek and some more on her arms.

  “I’m stopping,” I say, taking a breath, “because . . . what happened?”

  “A Brockton guy threw an elbow. He wanted to pass, and I didn’t let him.”

  “You were ahead of the Brockton boys?” I know that’s not the point, but still.

  She keeps talking, but it’s like I’m eavesdropping on a conversation she’s having with herself. “I wasn’t ready for it. It was stupid. I should’ve just pushed him back.” She demonstrates with a sharp jab of her elbow. “I should’ve pushed him into the stupid bushes!”

  The girls who were behind me walk by. When they hear Heather they speed up to a nervous trot and scurry past.

  Heather picks up a stick and hurls it across the path. I’m a little afraid I’ll be next.

  “Where’s the rest of the team?” I ask. “Didn’t they see you?”

  She points to a spot on the ground behind her, off the trail. “I was over there. They didn’t see me.”

  “You should’ve called them. They could’ve helped . . .”

  “They were in a race,” she snaps. “And so are you. Stop looking at me and go.” I don’t move. “Go!”

  I know she’s mad and I’m almost afraid to stay, but I don’t feel like I can go. She looks angry, but like she wants to cry, too. And there’s that friend thing. If I’m her friend, I should help.

  “It doesn’t make a difference,” I say. “I’m last, anyway.”

  “And you’re okay with that?” says Heather. “You’re happy to be last?”

  “I’m not happy to be,” I say. “I just am.”

  I can hear cheering in the distance. Probably the Brockton boys are finishing, or maybe they came in a long time ago and it’s the first girl. I’ve sort of lost track of who’s where.

  “You just are?” says Heather. “What’s wrong with you, anyway, Friedman? You don’t fight. You let other kids trample you. You duck when the ball is coming. You don’t even mind being last.”

  I know she’s saying all this because she’s upset, but my breath catches in my chest for a second, anyway, like it does when Charlie Kastner laughs at me for dropping a ball. Like it did when Mary Liz glared at me in third grade.

  “I mind,” I say.

  “Then do something!”

  “Like what?” I half yell. “What exactly am I supposed to do? Magically make myself a good athlete? Become the coolest kid in the grade? Wake up a genius?”

  I feel like walking away. Or running. Like Heather said, I’m in a race. I should just leave her here, if that’s what she wants. I even take a step to go.

  “You can fight back,” says Heather. “Stop ducking and fight back.”

  That’s when we hear the thunder. Perfect. I’m not going to leave her here, with a thunderstorm on the way. Besides, I know deep down that I wasn’t going to leave her anyway. I put out my hand. She looks like she’d rather punch me than admit she needs help, but when she tries to take a step on her own, she grimaces.

  “Come on,” I say. I keep my hand out until finally she takes it and puts her weight on her right foot. She leans on me like I’ve seen people do when they’ve been hurt in a football game or a war. It’s a lot harder than it looks, and I almost go down. But once I get my balance and she gets hers, we limp along and do okay.

  We make our way through the woods into the open field, where we can see the finish line. The thunder is rumbling, but it sounds pretty far away. We’re probably not going to get hit by lightning. Still, nothing would surprise me.

  Coach T is running toward us, and she meets us before we get to the finish line. “What happened?” she says, a little out of breath. “I was coming to find you!” She eases Heather from my shoulder onto hers.

  “A guy elbowed me,” says Heather.

  “Who?” asks Coach T.

  There’s another low rumble of thunder. “Some Brockton kid.”

  “Can you point him out?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “They all have that same stupid haircut.” Coach T looks over her shoulder. The visiting teams are hurrying to the buses. The Brockton kids are heading into the school. “Here,” she says. She shoulders Heather back over to me like a bag of groceries, and goes after them.

  It surprises me, how fast she runs. She catches up to the Brockton coach and he points to the sky, but she grabs his arm and says something else. Then he calls the boys over. We can see from here how they all shake their heads, how one of them points to the ground and shrugs, and how the coach holds his hands in a sign of helplessness, says something to Coach T, and motions to the boys to go inside.

 
There’s a louder boom of thunder, and Coach T calls for us all to hurry to the bus. Mark takes Heather’s other side and we help her along. As the Brockton team heads back inside, one kid looks over his shoulder with a smirky smile and I know it’s him. I just know he’s the one who pushed her.

  We dash for the bus, with Heather between us. Just as the bus doors whoosh shut, the rain starts. A few seconds later, it’s pouring down in sheets.

  “What did they say?” I ask Coach T as we take seats. She’s pulling an instant ice pack out of the medical bag in a way that reminds me of my mother when she’s upset and banging around in the kitchen.

  “They all denied it. One said a girl tripped, but it had nothing to do with them.”

  “And the coach believed them?” Wes asks.

  “Of course,” she snaps. “They’re Brockton. They’re little angels.”

  There isn’t a peep from anybody. I exchange a wide-eyed glance with Sanjit, but we all keep quiet. I guess I’m not the only one who’s had a parent in this kind of mood.

  The bus lurches into motion, and as we click our seatbelts, Heather says, “I should’ve just caught up to that kid and punched him out.”

  “And you’ve had good luck with that in the past,” says Coach T in a Mrs. T warning tone of voice.

  I almost smile.

  “I’ll call their coach again tomorrow,” says Coach T. “I’m not going to let that little—” She must see ten middle school mouths drop open all at once, and she stops herself just in time. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t let it happen again.”

  I’ve never seen this side of Coach T, or Mrs. T for that matter. I kind of like it.

  She adjusts the ice pack on Heather’s ankle a little roughly. “Ice it now, and more when you get home. Your dad can take you to see the doctor. We have plenty of time until the league meet. Let’s hope it’s just a sprain.”

  The bus bounces along, rain pounding the roof, splashing the windows as we dip into potholes. I sit across the aisle from Heather. She has the whole seat, with her leg stretched out and the ice pack on her ankle.