by Mark Gimenez
But Floyd T. didn't seem like a loser to me. He seemed like a grandfather, only he wasn't. (Dad said he had never been married or had children.) I never had a grandfather. Both had died a long time ago.
"No bullies today?" Floyd T. said.
"You know about Vic and his gang?"
"Anyone comes and goes on the fifteen hundred block, I know about 'em."
"They didn't chase me today."
"Why not?"
"They're scared."
"Of what?"
"Me. I have superpowers."
"Well, that's handy."
"Yep."
Floyd T. grunted. "Well, I don't know about superpowers, but as long as they stay scared, that's all that matters."
"Did you get bullied when you were a kid?"
"Can't remember back that far."
"My dad said he fought his way out of South Boston."
Floyd T. smiled. A few of his teeth were missing, and the others were yellow.
"I bet he did. And I bet he won more fights than he lost."
"I got my mother's size."
"And her sweet soul."
"What's that mean?"
"Means you care about folks. Like old homeless soldiers."
"I miss him. My dad."
Floyd T. patted my back. "I know you do. I miss him, too."
My dad and Floyd T. were good friends because they were both soldiers. Dad and I would walk over here, and I'd go check out the used stuff in Uncommon Objects while Dad and Floyd T. sat on the stoop and talked about their wars and other man stuff. Dad said it was like having the man talks he had never had with his own dad. He said underneath that beard and hair and smell, Floyd T. was actually a handsome man, like my grandfather had been. Like my dad was. They did a "Hunks of Austin" calendar to raise money for charity and they asked him to pose in his fireman's gear except without his shirt, but Mom had said, "Over my dead body!"
I felt my eyes water up. I leaned into Floyd T. and put my head on his chest like I used to do with my dad even though Floyd T. smelled particularly bad today. He patted me on the back until I sat up again. Then he adjusted his fake left leg and pushed himself up. He grabbed a tool and started scraping the wood trim around Ramon's plate-glass window.
I wiped my face and said, "What are you doing?"
"Scraping off the old paint. Then I'm gonna sand the wood and paint it."
"What color?"
"Ramon's thinking red."
"I like red."
"Me, too."
"Is Ramon paying you?"
"Two hundred bucks."
"Two hundred bucks? Wow. What're you gonna buy, an iPhone or a Wii?"
"Food."
"Oh. Well, food's nice, too."
"Yep."
"Our house needs painting, but we can't afford to hire anyone. I'm supposed to be the man of the house, but …"
"Bit young for the job, don't you think?"
"Tell me. I'm still trying to figure out fractions."
After a while, I said goodbye and headed home. I crossed Congress Avenue at the light by Allen's Boots. I was really careful to watch for speeding cars running the red light—texting drivers posed a constant threat to pedestrians in Austin, Texas. But I got across safely and walked over to Drake Avenue and past Mrs. Cushing's house. She was out in her short-shorts, and a neighborhood dad had stopped to admire her garden. In most neighborhoods, a purple house would stand out. But not in ours. Mom said our neighborhood was "eclectic," which was a fancy word for weird. One house was red with bright blue trim, another lime green with yellow trim, another had a bright orange front door, and one had a peace sign framed with Christmas lights on the roof. There were several crazy modern houses and even a few gingerbread houses. Only a few houses were new. Most were old, but most had been renovated.
Except ours.
At least our neighborhood wasn't boring. I walked down the street and was almost to our hedgerow when I looked over at the neighbors' house and saw the boy with the pale face. But he wasn't up in the window. He was sitting on the porch steps. I waved. He waved back, so I walked over to him. He stood.
"Hi, I'm Max."
"I am Norbert."
He was shorter than me—in fact, he was barely taller than Maddy—and a lot skinnier. His skin was perfect and so pale it seemed transparent. His hair was white, and his soft eyes were almost clear. He had red lips, like when Maddy played with Mom's make-up. He was the strangest looking boy I'd ever seen. I figured he must be foreign. He was wearing a crisp short-sleeve blue shirt with a collar that buttoned down, creased khakis, a brown belt, brown socks, and brown loafers that looked brand new. In fact, Norbert looked brand new, like he had just stepped out of the L.L. Bean catalog we get in the mail.
"I've never known anyone named Norbert."
"It is a family name."
He talked like the two Bosnian refugees at school, like English was a foreign language or something.
"Oh. Max isn't anybody's name. At least not in my family."
Norbert sat back down, so I sat next to him. I hunched over and rested my elbows on my knees, but Norbert sat with his back straight. He had perfect posture. Mrs. Broadus says I slump.
I sniffed. Norbert even smelled new, like the Suburban when we first bought it, before we had spilled Gatorade and ice cream and M&Ms and cheese puffs and other assorted food items on the carpet. Mom said that if we lost the house we could survive for a month in the Suburban just on the food we spilled under the seats. I understood the food part but not the "lost" part; I mean, a house is a pretty big thing to lose.
"Don't you go to school?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I am educated at home."
"Why?"
"My intellect is far too advanced for your schools."
"I knew it—you're foreign."
"Yes."
"California?"
"Los Angeles. How did you know?"
"Everyone who moves here from California says our schools are terrible. But our football teams are great, so people here don't care."
Norbert gestured down the sidewalk. "You were not pursued home this day?"
"Pursued? Oh, you mean Vic and his posse?"
Norbert nodded.
"No, they didn't chase me today."
"Why not?"
"They're scared of me now, because of what I did to them yesterday. Did you see that?" I pointed out at the sidewalk in front of the house. "They were all over me, and I threw my fists out, and they went flying down the sidewalk." I smiled at the memory. "Boy, that was amazing."
"Yes. Amazing."
"I think I have superpowers, like the Hulk."
"What is a hulk?"
"Not a hulk. The Hulk. When he gets mad, he gets really big and really strong. He's a superhero, like Superman and Spiderman and Batman. Well, Batman doesn't really have superpowers, but he's got neat gadgets that make him seem super."
"Ah."
"So how do you like living in Austin?"
"I have not yet observed the city."
"Well, I can show you around the neighborhood, if you want?"
"That would be excellent."
"How about this weekend?"
"My father will be working, so I will be available."
"What does he do?"
"He is employed by the government. He must work every day and many nights."
"Where's your mom?"
Norbert's expression changed. "Her existence was terminated."
I wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but his face told me it wasn't good. We didn't say anything for a few minutes, and I could tell he was sad so I changed the subject.
"You got any brothers or sisters?"
"I have no siblings."
"I've got two. Scarlett, she's fourteen, and Maddy, she's four. So—"
I froze. A black car had turned onto our street. I watched it come closer, but it didn't stop. It drove past our house. I realized I had been holding my breath. I exhaled and felt my body relax.
/>
"Are your emotions in turmoil?" Norbert asked.
"Oh, uh, I don't like black cars."
Norbert stared at me a moment then nodded. "I understand."
"You do?"
"Yes. I do."
That's weird.
"So you're home alone a lot?"
"I am."
"Well, I've got a baseball game tomorrow morning at ten, if you want to come?"
"Baseball. The American pastime invented by Alexander Cartwright in eighteen-forty-five. Do you take performance enhancing drugs?"
"Nah. Kids don't do that, only the pros. So they can hit more home runs."
"Do you hit home runs?"
"Me? I've never even had a hit. You play?"
"I do not engage in athletic contests."
"I shouldn't. But my mom is worried about me, she says I spend too much time in my room these days. So, dude, you want to come to my game?"
"What is a 'dude'?"
I started to laugh—who on Earth didn't know what "dude" meant?—then I remembered: home schooled.
"Oh, that's just an expression. It means friend."
"I am your friend?"
"You are now."
Norbert's face brightened. "Dude, I would like to attend your baseball game."
"Okay. We'll leave around nine, so just come on over."
I said goodbye and walked around the hedge to my house. And I thought, Nice boy, but he does have a funny way of expressing himself.
"I met the new kid next door. His name is Norbert. Seems like a nice boy. Short but nice."
We were eating dinner—chili—and playing Scrabble. Scarlett was winning, Maddy was pretending to be a cat so she was trying to eat her chili without a spoon, and Mom was pouring a glass from another long bottle.
"Norbert?" Scarlett said. "That's an odd name."
"He's foreign. From California."
"Does he go to your school?" Mom asked.
"No, he's home schooled."
"Ohhh."
Ohhh, like when a neighborhood mom told her that Mrs. Cushing modeled underwear for the newspaper advertisements when she was younger.
"He talks kind of funny, but he seems real smart. Anyway, he doesn't have a mother and his dad's working this weekend, so I invited him to my game."
"Are they divorced or is she …"
"I don't know, but he seemed kind of sad. So is it okay if he comes with us?"
"Sure."
"But be prepared, because he's kind of different."
"A-L-I-E-N," Scarlett said. "Double word score, that's ten points."
five
Maddy screamed, "Aah!"
She was standing frozen at the bottom of the stairs and pointing at the front door. A pale face was plastered against the glass. Which made me jump, too.
But it was just Norbert.
"It's okay, Maddy. He's the boy from next door."
I opened the front door. Norbert was again dressed like a catalog boy.
"Hey, Norbert."
"Dude."
It was seven the next morning. I was already dressed in my rec specs and Dodgers uniform for the game. Mom and Scarlett slept in on Saturdays—Dad said they were getting their beauty sleep, but they always looked the same when they woke up. Maddy and I got up early to watch cartoons and eat Honey-Nut Cheerios out of the box. I introduced Maddy to Norbert. She went into the den and turned on the TV. I went into the kitchen and found the cereal in the pantry and two long bottles in the trash.
Dad had always gotten up with us and cooked a big breakfast on Saturdays. (Firemen cook for each other at the station.) He'd have the table set and the food served when Mom and Scarlett came downstairs. We used to look forward to his breakfasts. Everything was different now. Funny how you take your parents for granted. You think, Hey, I've got my Wii. I'm happy. But when your dad isn't there anymore, a Wii won't make you happy. Trust me on that.
An hour later when Mom came downstairs—she did not look like she'd just had a beauty sleep—Norbert was finishing off the box of Cheerios and laughing hysterically, like it was the first time he'd ever seen SpongeBob. It was just a rerun, but a sponge living in a pineapple on the ocean floor, that never gets old.
"That Mr. Krabs, he is quite an amusing character," Norbert said. "Cha-ching. I like that, although I am not sure what it means."
"Money," I said. "You know, like the sound of a cash register." I turned to Mom. "This is Norbert. He's the kid from next door."
"Hello, Norbert. I'm Mrs. Dugan."
Norbert jumped off the couch, stood straight, and reached up and shook my mom's hand like a grownup.
"Norbert Nordstrom. Thank you for the pie. I enjoyed consuming it."
Mom gave me one of those looks that said, Wow, when you said short, you really meant short. But to Norbert, she said, "You're quite welcome. Nordstrom … is that a Swedish name?"
"Not exactly."
"Well, you look very nice, Norbert. We're happy you're going to the game with us." Mom looked around. "Where's Maddy?"
I glanced around. "She was right here."
"Maddy!"
She came running out of the kitchen with a box of cereal, took a hard left around us, and circled the den three times before running back into the kitchen. Mom groaned.
"Max, she got into the Lucky Charms."
During one of Mom's few—like once in a lifetime—weak moments, I had talked her into buying a box of Lucky Charms. Madeleine Dugan was now riding a major-league sugar high.
"My bad."
A voice from above: "Hi, guys."
Scarlett bounced down the stairs in her green-and-gold cheerleader outfit. She cheered for the eighth-grade football team on Saturday afternoons. Band, cheerleading, the chess club, the yearbook staff—Mom said staying busy was Scarlett's way of coping. And it was less painful than hitting walls, although playing the clarinet would be a close second.
"Scarlett, this is our new neighbor," Mom said. "Norbert."
"Hi, Norbert. I'm Scarlett."
Norbert did not speak. He stood there with his mouth open, staring up at my big sister like I stared at the chocolate fountain at Whole Foods. He finally spoke.
"You are a magnificent example of your species."
"Nah," I said. "She's just fourteen. Older girls always look glamorous. Especially the cheerleaders."
"How old are you, Norbert?" Scarlett asked.
"Ten … in your years."
Scarlett laughed. "As opposed to dog years?"
"I told you he has a funny way of expressing himself," I said.
Mom and Scarlett ate breakfast, then we went out back—Maddy ran—and piled into the old Suburban. My parents had bought the big SUV when gas was cheap and no one was worried about global warming, but now we couldn't afford to buy a hybrid. Norbert looked around as if he had never been in a car before, then he abruptly leaned over. He came back up with a blue peanut M&M.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Oh," I said, "that's a peanut M&M. They're great."
"A food item?"
"Uh, yeah, but—"
Before I could stop him, he ate it.
"It is tasty."
"Dude, that's probably been on the floorboard for like, months! … You see any more?"
We drove over to the baseball fields by the lake. When he wasn't staring at Scarlett, Norbert stared wide-eyed out the window like Japanese tourists on their first trip to Texas hoping to see cowboys and Indians. When we got to the field, I ran ahead with my glove and bat for warm-ups.
"Good luck, Max!" Mom yelled.
"Cup check!"
A field of dreams. A baseball diamond on a glorious Saturday morning—the sun was bright, the sky blue, the grass green, and the cotton candy pink. The popcorn was white. The hot dogs were … that hot dog color. Most people come to the ball park for the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the smell of the grass … I come for the concession stand. I was standing on the infield grass eating my high-protein-and-carbs pregam
e meal—a Snickers bar—and daydreaming about my postgame meal—a foot-long (they were actually only 9¾ inches long; I measured) all-beef hot dog.
Consequently, Coach's words—"Cup check!"—never fully registered with my mind. But I followed the other players and lined up along the first base line anyway. The alluring scent of freshly grilled hot dogs had drifted over on the breeze, and my mind was slathering mustard and relish on a big fat juicy dog wrapped in a soft warm bun … so I was completely unaware that Coach was now walking down the line of boys and conducting the mandatory pregame cup check—rapping each boy's cup with a metal bat—the bigger boys standing proudly with their shoulders back and their cups forward as if daring Coach to give them a good rap, so he did, each time a bit harder, but he saved the hardest rap for … me.
"Uummpphh!'
A nauseating pain washed over my body and abruptly ended my hot dog dreams. I clutched my crotch and dropped to my knees then rolled forward to the ground. The brown gob of Snickers fell out of my open mouth. The other boys laughed, and Coach Slimes—he was the baseball coach, too—chuckled.
"Forgot your cup again, Max?"
"Yep."
My voice sounded like Maddy's.
"Man up, Max," Coach said.
I adjusted my cup.
I had manned up and was now standing out in left field where nothing much ever happened. Which was why Coach Slimes always put me out here. He said I would have fewer opportunities to commit errors in the outfield. Not many ten- or eleven-year-old kids could hit the ball out of the infield, so playing in the outfield was pretty boring. I tried not to daydream just in case a ball did come my way, but none ever did. So I mostly passed the time adjusting my cup.
At least out here you had a good view of the game.
Coach called us his "band of misfits" when he was in a good mood, which is to say, when we were winning. When we were losing, he called us a "bunch of lazy pishers," although none of us knew what pishers were.
But we were a motley crew.
Ronald, who played in right field, was an even worse athlete than me. Right now he was scratching his butt and staring up at the jets on their final approach to the Austin airport like he was fascinated with flight. This was his first baseball season. He was home schooled and seldom socialized with kids his own age, so his mom thought baseball would be a good developmental experience.
"Ronald!" Coach yelled. "The game's not up there! It's down here!"