by Mark Gimenez
But a split second before the four spitballs impacted the side of his face, Norbert's left hand shot up and snatched them from the air like a lizard's tongue snatching mosquitoes. Norbert lowered his hand and dropped the spitballs to the floor without so much as a glance at Vic and his gang—whose mouths had fallen open. Norbert had never turned his head.
Without looking up from the book, Mrs. Broadus said, "Vic, Biff, Bud, Rod—you may each sign a conduct card and have your parents sign it tonight. Return them to me tomorrow."
Their faces turned hot pink.
Which didn't bode well for PE.
I was showing Norbert where to sit on the sideline when Coach Slimes blew the whistle to start the game. A ball immediately nailed me in the head and knocked me down.
"Max," Norbert said, "are you damaged?"
"Just my pride."
I looked over and saw Vic pointing a finger at me and scowling.
"Throw the ball with great force, Max," Norbert said.
I turned to him and smiled.
"Okay."
I got up off the floor and picked up the ball. Vic was standing thirty feet away, mocking me as if I couldn't hit him, which was normally true. Except Norbert was there. I reared back like an NFL quarterback throwing a bomb and threw the ball with great force at Vic. The ball rocketed across the gym and hit Vic right in his gut and sent him flying backward. He hit the floor on his rear end and slid all the way across the gym to the far wall.
Everyone laughed. At Vic.
Now you'd think Vic would have learned his lesson. But like I said, he wasn't the brightest kid in fourth grade. We were standing in front of our boycott table in the cafeteria at lunch, and I was showing Norbert the sneakers Legend Jones had dumped into the barrel—they were huge. The other kids were gathered around when Vic and his gang pushed their way through.
"Hiya, Max," Vic said in his bully voice. "Who's the dwarf albino?"
"He's not a dwarf or an albino," I said. "He's my friend."
"He's a freak. Just like you."
"Go away, Vic. No one's afraid of you anymore."
"Oh, yeah?"
He stepped toward Norbert like he was going to hit him. He towered over the little alien. I stepped between them and put my hands on my hips.
"You want to hit someone, Vic, you hit me."
"Okay."
Vic gut-punched me. I doubled over.
"I didn't think you'd really do it."
Sunny squatted next to me.
"Max, are you all right?"
"I think so."
Vic stepped real close to Norbert—his little face hit Vic chest high. Norbert turned his head up to Vic and said, "And so it begins."
"He can't talk like that in America," Dee said.
"I told him," I said.
Vic grabbed Norbert's shirt and drew his fist back.
"Leave him alone, Vic!" I shouted.
"Or what?"
"Or … Go ahead, Norbert, use the finger on him!"
"The finger?" Vic said.
"He can destroy you with his finger."
"And I can break his nose with my fist."
"Victor is not going to hit me," Norbert said.
"I'm not?"
"No, Victor, you're not."
"Why not?"
"Because you would damage your hand."
"Hitting you? You're a dwarf."
"A very strong dwarf," Dee said.
"Victor, if you damage your hand, you would not be able to play the piano."
Vic stared down at Norbert. "What are you talking about?"
"Yeah," Biff said. "Vic don't play the piano. That's for sissies."
Bud and Rod crowded in.
"He plays football," Rod said.
"Yeah, football," Bud said.
"Tell them, Victor," Norbert said. "Tell them that you prefer playing the piano, but you play football because your father forces you to."
"That's a lie!"
"Is it?" Norbert said.
"You play the piano?" Bud said.
"Shut up!" Vic said.
"Yes," Norbert said. "He plays the piano. And he is very good. Let me show you."
Norbert spoke static to Sunny's laptop, which was playing the sweatshop video, and the screen suddenly changed to a video of Vic playing the piano. Everyone stared as if in shock.
"You do play the piano," I said.
"You're good," Sunny said.
"Football will ruin your fingers, Victor," Norbert said. "You must tell your father that you want to be a concert pianist, not a quarterback. You must follow your dreams, not his."
Vic's face sank.
"My dad, he was a big star in high school. He wants me to be like him."
"No, he wants you to be what he was not."
Norbert again spoke static to Sunny's laptop. Now a video of a high school football team played. The picture zoomed in on the sideline, on a chubby water boy.
"That is your father, Vic."
Vic stared at the screen. "He didn't play?"
"No. He was overweight and slow. The other boys made fun of him."
The video showed the players coming off the field and pushing the water boy out of their way. He fell to the ground.
"Victor, when your father's existence is terminated, you will be left with your lost dreams, just as he is today. And you will become bitter, just as he is today. And you will bully your son, just as he bullies you."
"He doesn't bully me!"
Norbert gestured at the laptop. "Would you like me to show you?"
Vic's shoulders slumped. He suddenly looked small.
"No."
"Your father was bullied in school. That is why he bullies you and you bully Max. You must break the cycle, Victor, or you will bully your son. Do you want that?"
Vic shook his head.
"Then you must tell your father that your dream is not football. It is the piano."
For a second, I thought he might cry. But he sucked it up and stood tall.
"I'm sorry, Max. No one will bully you anymore. And I'll buy you a new iPod."
"That's okay. Norbert fixed it."
"Max … I was always jealous of you."
"Me? You were jealous of me? Why?"
"Because I always wished my dad was like your dad."
Vic put his hand on my shoulder.
"I'm sorry about your dad, Max."
Vic pulled off his new Legend Jones sneakers (the ones he had bought to replace the ones I had hurled on) and dropped them into the barrel. He took a pair of red flip-flops and stepped into them. Then he held his fist out to me. Not to punch me, but to give me a fist-bump. I tapped knuckles with him. Then he turned and walked through the crowd and out the door.
Wow.
"That was nice, what you did with Vic. Knowing everything about everyone came in pretty handy."
Norbert and I were walking home after school. It was a nice afternoon.
"Victor was conflicted, trying to please himself and his father."
"Like you?"
Norbert smiled. "You are very intelligent, Max."
"Thanks, but I've been trying to show you how stupid humans are."
"Yes. I am conflicted. My father is going to file his report recommending our government to take over Earth, but I do not want him to do so. I have come to believe that humans deserve more time to save Earth before we destroy it …"
The Congress Avenue stop light flashed the WALK sign. Norbert kept talking, but I still checked for oncoming cars running the red light. It was all clear so we stepped off the sidewalk and started crossing the wide avenue.
"… My father is making his determination on too small a sampling of humans and human behavior and …"
I was almost to the other side of Congress and thinking that perhaps we should stop at the cupcake trailer when I realized that Norbert's voice had grown distant then had stopped altogether. I looked for him to my side. He wasn't there. I turned back. He had stopped in the middle of Congress Ave
nue and was now gazing north at the State Capitol in downtown.
He didn't see the car.
And the driver didn't see him.
The driver's head was down—he was texting.
He wasn't stopping for the light.
He was going to hit Norbert.
I ran to Norbert … I saw the car … the driver looked up … he saw me … he hit the brakes … the tires squealed … I pushed Norbert hard … he fell forward … out of the way … the car hit me … that's all I remember.
Floyd T. was sitting on the stoop of Ramon's tattoo parlor and writing his memoirs in a Big Chief notebook when he heard the tires squealing. He looked up just as the car hit little Max Dugan. He vaulted to his foot and yelled to Ramon inside the tattoo parlor, "Call nine-one-one!" Then he ran as fast as he could with the artificial leg into the middle of Congress Avenue where Max lay sprawled on the concrete. He dropped to the ground and felt for Max's pulse.
He was alive.
But he was unconscious.
Andy was now next to him. Floyd T. knew not to move the boy in case of a spinal cord injury. So he said a prayer, the same prayer he had said so many times in Vietnam over a fallen soldier. The same prayer he had said when he himself had fallen that last time. A young man came forward, holding out a cell phone, his face pale and shocked.
"Is he hurt? I didn't see him. I was texting my girlfriend …"
Floyd T. stood and grabbed the driver's cell phone and flung it as far as he could down Congress Avenue. Then he grabbed the man's shirt, but Andy and Ramon jumped in and stopped him from doing something he'd regret.
"Here comes the ambulance," Andy said.
A crowd had gathered by the time the ambulance arrived with sirens blaring. Two EMTs jumped out and ran over.
"Oh, no! It's Max Dugan!"
They put an oxygen mask on Max and started an IV. They wrapped a brace around his neck and slid a back splint under him. Then they put him on a stretcher and carried him to the ambulance.
"Who's with him?" one EMT shouted.
"I am," Floyd T. said.
Floyd T. turned to Andy and Ramon. "Stay here with the driver till the cops come." He then turned to Norbert. The small boy was pale from head to foot.
"Come with me, son."
They followed Max to the ambulance and climbed in the back with him. They sat on the side bench for the short drive downtown to the hospital.
"His mother works at the hospital," Floyd T. said to the EMTs.
Kate Dugan was standing at the Labor & Delivery desk when she got the call. She dropped the phone and ran the length of the hospital to the ER. She opened the back doors to the ambulance before it had come to a complete stop.
"Max!" she screamed.
The EMTs lifted her unconscious son out. Kate stood on the gurney's foot rail and stuck her stethoscope on Max's chest and listened to his heart as they rolled him into the ER and back into an examining room.
Double doors shut on Floyd T. and Norbert.
"We gotta wait out here, son."
Norbert stood motionless with his eyes closed. Floyd T. tugged on his arm, but the pale boy didn't budge. Instead, he touched his forehead and said softly, "Father, I am at the emergency room of the Austin General Hospital in downtown. Max has been hurt. Please come." Then he turned, walked to the chairs along the wall, and sat. He did not say a word until a small pale man entered the ER.
"Father," Norbert said.
The man came over. Norbert told his father what had happened.
"Max risked his existence to preserve mine."
The boy had an odd way of expressing himself.
I didn't die or nothing. The car had swerved just enough to avoid a direct hit, but the glancing blow had knocked me to the ground. I hit my head on the concrete and was knocked unconscious. I suffered a concussion, but not a closed-head injury. I did have to stay the night in the hospital for observation.
"I'm staying with you, Max," Mom said.
Two hours later, we were in my room: Mom, Norbert, Mr. Nordstrom, and Floyd T. Wires ran from me to machines that beeped. Mom checked them every few minutes. I had a TV on the wall—with cable. The local channels ran stories about the accident. The police arrested the texting driver and charged him with felony stupidity.
"Who's gonna stay with Scarlett and Maddy?" I asked.
Mom turned to Floyd T. "Would you mind?"
"Oh, Kate, I …"
"Please, Floyd T."
Floyd T. nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I'll watch over them."
"Thank you. I'll call Scarlett and let her know." She turned to Norbert's father. "Nils, can Floyd T. ride home with you?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Thank you." She turned back to me. "Okay, Max, say good-night to everyone. You need to rest."
"Good-night, Floyd T., Mr. Nordstrom."
Floyd T. came over and patted my head. "You're a hero, Max. Just like your dad."
I held my fist out to Norbert. He gave me a fist-bump. I could tell he wanted to talk privately.
"Mom, can Norbert and I be alone, just for a minute."
"Sure, honey."
They stepped outside, and Norbert said, "Max, you saved my existence."
"But you're not human."
"That large vehicle would have terminated my existence just the same." Norbert touched my forehead. "Thank you, Max."
"You're a hero!"
When Mom and I walked in the back door the next morning, Scarlett greeted us with the newspaper. The big headline read "Hero!" Scarlett hugged me tightly and whispered in my ear, "Just like Dad." When she released me, she said, "Max, I love you."
Like I said, she's perfect.
We all went into the kitchen where we found Floyd T. cooking breakfast. He was wearing his red reading glasses, Mom's red apron, and yellow elbow-length cleaning gloves. He was holding a big spatula.
"I found a box of these gloves under the sink," he said. "I scrubbed my hands, but after forty years on the streets, I figured better safe than sorry."
"Smells good," I said.
"Omelets and banana nut muffins," Floyd T. said. "I used to cook in Nam."
Floyd T. said he and Rex had slept on the kitchen floor—"The concrete made us feel right at home"—and had awakened at dawn. They had sat on the front porch until the girls woke up because he liked to see the sunrise, then Scarlett had gathered the ingredients for omelets and muffins. When he finished cooking, he served four plates then removed the apron and gloves and whistled for Rex.
"Where are you going?" Mom asked.
"Rex and me, we're too dirty to eat at a table. We'll eat outside."
"No, you will not. Sit."
Mom got up and served a plate for Floyd T. and one for Rex. She put one plate on the table and the other on the floor. Floyd T. seemed embarrassed, but he sat. When Mom issued orders, it was best to obey.
It was good to be home.
twenty-three
By the next week, everything had returned to normal—well, if you call normal waiting for the Earth to be taken over by aliens and for you and your mother and sisters to be turned into their slaves.
But I did play baseball.
Norbert came over at seven that Saturday morning. We ate breakfast then piled into the Suburban and drove to the ball park. I had missed the last game. My team had lost. When I took the field, everyone applauded, I guess because I was still alive after getting creamed by a car. Or maybe because I had become the star of the team. But the fun of being the star had worn off … because I wasn't the star. Norbert was.
Only nobody knew it.
I made a running catch of a fly ball in the first inning with two outs and the bases loaded. Coach said I saved at least three runs from scoring. In the third inning I hit a double and drove in two runs. We won 5-2.
"Great game, Max," Mom said.
"You da man," Scarlett said. "You and Norbert."
Maddy gave me a sticky hug. She had doused herself with a snow cone.
; "Excellent catch and hit," Norbert said.
"Thanks," I said without smiling.
"Let us have hot dogs."
"Sure."
My mom was talking to another mother—
"I don't know what got into him, he started hitting the ball one game and …"
—so Norbert and I walked ahead to the concession stand.
"Max, are you not happy? You cannot hit a home run every game."
"It's not that. A double's great. It's just that … I didn't do it. You did."
"No, Max. I did not do anything."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I did not help you."
"You didn't?"
"No."
"I made that catch and got that hit on my own?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Because you now believe in yourself."
After the game, Norbert and I sat on the deck of the playscape. We were quiet today. So was Butch behind us—he didn't want Norbert's finger pointed his way. Mom came outside and went into the garage and pulled the big mower out. She pulled the cord twenty times before the engine started. She pushed the mower through the thick grass twice before the engine suddenly stopped. She was red in the face and sweating. She checked the gas then called over to me: "Max, I've got to get some more gas. Scarlett and Maddy are inside."
"Okay."
She put the gas can in the back of the Suburban and drove off. I wish she would let me mow the grass. I mean, the world's going to end soon anyway. But, if I couldn't mow, the next best thing would be … I turned to Norbert.
"Can you move anything with your finger?"
Fifteen minutes later, Kate Dugan turned the big Suburban into the driveway. She heard the sound of the mower in the backyard.
Max was mowing!
She cut the engine and got out. She ran down the driveway to the backyard and—