Revenge of the Bully

by Scott Starkey

  I stood watching him go, now suddenly alone. As I scrambled around in a meager effort to get my books back together, a poster on the wall caught my attention: THIS IS A BULLY-FREE ZONE!

  Great, I thought. Too bad bullies can’t read.

  Chapter 2

  A SURPRISE ANNOUNCEMENT

  Luckily, the rest of my first morning at Garrettsville Middle School was wonderfully uneventful, except for the occasional congratulations on my new football career. It wasn’t until lunch in the cafeteria that I found out how everyone knew about my rise to stardom. Holding up his phone, Rishi explained, “I posted on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Flickr, Instagram, and Tumblr that you’re the new starting running back.”

  “You forgot smoke signals,” I said.

  “And this morning,” he continued, “I wrote a couple of blogs. Plus Dave and I are making a rap video for YouTube tonight. Rodney, you’ll be a star when I get through with you.”

  “Look Rishi, I don’t really want to—”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not imposing. I don’t mind putting in some legwork for a friend, but remember, as your agent I get ten percent of your earnings.”

  “School athletes don’t get paid,” I reminded him.

  “Until now. I already have calls in to Nike and Gatorade. Oh yeah, keep Friday night open.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re making an appearance at the mall.”

  “No I’m not. I—”

  “Relax, all you got to do is sign a few autographs, kiss a few babies, remind the kids to eat their veggies. You know, the all-American athlete stuff.”

  I groaned. Once Rishi got going there was no slowing him down. My friend Slim, who was sitting at the table with my other friends from last year, Dave and Greg, interrupted my thoughts. “You sure he’s harmless?”

  “Rishi? Of course he’s—”

  “Not Rishi,” Slim whispered, motioning to the newcomer sitting in our midst. I looked over at Josh. He was attacking his sandwich like a lion mauling a zebra.

  “Just keep your hands away from his mouth while he’s eating,” I cautioned.

  Slim sat on his hands and let out a nervous giggle.

  It was good to eat lunch with the guys. I’d made new friends while away at camp but I’d missed the lunchroom laughs. Being back with them even made me feel better about the second half of the day, which turned out pretty normal—until I got back home, that is.

  “I just saw your texts,” my dad yelled excitedly to Rishi as we walked in the front door. “You made the football team, Rodney. Great job!”

  My mom stood behind him. “I’m not sure I like this whole football thing.”

  I didn’t like it either. I knew Trevor would get me sooner or later so I was more than ready to accept my mom’s removing me from the team.

  “But since you seem so talented at it . . . ,” she continued. What was that? “. . . I’ve allowed your father to convince me to let you keep playing.”

  My dad nodded at me with a grin. “That’s what dads are for.”

  My mom said, “Well, it looks like we now have two reasons to celebrate. Rodney, I have something to tell you and we’re going out to a fancy French restaurant where I’ll make my announcement.”

  “Sound’s great. Which one are we going to?” Rishi asked.

  My mom looked at him. I could see by her face that Rishi hadn’t been on the guest list but she swallowed and said, “We’re going to Chez Pierre.”

  “Awesome.” Rishi smiled. “Good thing I’m wearing my fancy first-day-of-school shirt.”

  Unlike Rishi, I was surprised my family was going out to an expensive restaurant. During the summer my dad had taken a good-paying job with a developer called Vanderdick Enterprises. Everything was fine until the company decided to bulldoze my summer camp to build a shopping mall. I kind of stopped it from happening and they fired my dad. Luckily, he had just gotten another job, only it was part-time—in a mall of all places—and money was a bit tight.

  I was thinking about this as we piled into the car. Penny brought me back to more immediate concerns when she said, without looking up from her iTouch, “I can’t believe you’re playing football, Rodney.”

  Neither can I, I thought.

  Rishi said, “I may have had a little to do with it—”

  “That makes sense,” Penny interrupted. “Rodney would be too scared to join the football team himself.”

  I glared at her. My sister could be a nasty little thing, and to make matters worse, she was the one person in the world who had me figured out.

  “Penny,” Rishi said, “you’re a cute kid. Having a brother like Rodney must be difficult. Jealousy’s natural. If you ever need to talk it out, I’m here for you, okay?”

  She gazed at him in disbelief before muttering, “What a dope.”

  My mom turned around from the front seat. “That’s not nice, Penny. Now children, about my announcement. I’ve been wanting to get a job since moving here last year and I just found out this week that I landed the most amazing one imaginable.”

  “It’s a very difficult job to get,” my dad added. “Very prestigious.”

  “You’re going to have your own TV talk show?” Rishi asked.

  “No, I am—”

  “You’re going to be a scout for the Cleveland Indians?” Rishi tried again.

  “No, I’m—”

  “The next secretary of state?”

  “Rishi!” My mom held her finger to her lips. “I am the new food critic for the Cleveland Plain Dealer. It’s the city’s top paper.”

  “Food critic?” Rishi shouted excitedly. “What’s a food critic?”

  My mom took a deep breath and explained, “A food critic goes to a restaurant when it opens and writes a review about the restaurant. If it’s a good review, more customers will come than if the critic hates the restaurant.”

  “Tell them the best part!” my dad said.

  “In order for me to sample as much food as possible, I’m allowed to take people with me. Everyone can order something different and I’ll just sneak a taste from each of your plates.”

  “Not that part, Gloria,” my dad whined. “Tell them the best part!”

  She smiled. “The entire bill is paid for by the newspaper.”

  “Can you believe it?” my dad shouted.

  “This is awesome,” Rishi blurted. “We’ll be eating like kings!”

  “Just one thing,” my mom cautioned. “Don’t mention our real last name or they’ll know I’m a critic and treat us differently. You see, there was an item in today’s paper announcing that I’ll be handling restaurant reviews from now on.”

  “Won’t they treat us better if they know you’re a critic?” I asked.

  “Yes, but then the review won’t be accurate.”

  “So you’re like a secret agent?” Rishi asked.

  “Sort of, I suppose. Just remember not to mention Gloria Rathbone.”

  “Who’s Gloria?” Rishi asked.

  “Me. Got it?”

  He winked at her as we pulled up at the restaurant. “Got it, Gloria.”

  My eyes took a minute to adjust to the darkness of the dining room. When they did, I noticed white tablecloths, wood paneling, and lots of candles. My skin started to break out in goose bumps from the freezing air conditioning.

  “Good evening,” said a man in a tuxedo. “Welcome to Chez Pierre.” He said it kind of snooty like we weren’t really welcome.

  “We have a reservation for Smith,” my mom said.

  The man looked down at his ledger and made a face. “Smith is a party of four.”

  “Now it’s five!” Rishi said proudly.

  “Quite. I’ll show you to your table.”

  We followed him to the back of the restaurant where he stuck us between the me
n’s room and ladies’ room.

  “We don’t need to use the bathroom,” my dad said with a frown. “Perhaps we could sit at one of those tables?” He pointed to the many available ones in the front of the restaurant.

  The man made a fake apologetic face. “Oh, I’m sorry sir, those are reserved.”

  My dad turned dark red. “Didn’t we have a reservation? Didn’t you just read ‘Rathbone’ back there in your little book?”

  “Donald!” My mom tried to shush him.

  “What, Gloria? Oh, sorry. I meant Smith.”

  The man’s eyes got real big. “Rahthbone . . . Gloria . . .” He gripped the back of a chair to steady himself. “Oh sir, you’re absolutely right. I have a wonderful table for you. It overlooks the river. I think you’ll like it. Madame, let me help you to your chair. Are these your children? Very handsome.” He patted Penny on the head. “You light up the restaurant like a spring day.” He turned sharply, snapped his fingers at two waiters, and made a couple of frantic-looking gestures. “Right this way, right this way.”

  My dad, Rishi, Penny, and I were all smiles. My mom wasn’t. “You’ve just ruined the review. They know who I am now.”

  “What? No they don’t.”

  As my dad answered, a waiter slid a glass of champagne in front of him. “Compliments of the house.”

  “Ah, thanks.” My dad turned back to my mom. “Honey, they’re just reacting to my powers of persuasion.”

  She frowned slightly and opened the menu. As my dad looked it over I noticed his hands begin to tremble. “Gloria, these prices! Are you positive you got the job?”

  “Relax, Donald. Stop being silly. We need to figure out what everyone’s getting.”

  Before we had a chance to read any further, the waiter sprinted to the table like an Olympics finalist. He launched into a grand speech describing all sorts of food. I soon lost interest. All I remember is something about an S car going, which made no sense, and then something about sweet bread.

  Rishi smiled. “That’s what I want. I like bread and I like sweets. And I’ll have the filet mignon . . . medium rare.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I’ll take the S car going and the duck,” I said.

  The waiter smiled at my parents. “What sophisticated eaters you have with you.”

  My dad put down his champagne long enough to answer, “We try our best to expose them to the finer things.”

  “I’m quite sure,” the waiter said. “Now, what can I get for the rest of the table?”

  Everyone ordered and the waiter walked off. I noticed that my mom was smiling slightly at Rishi and me. It seemed like she found something funny, but instead of talking she turned back and listened to what my dad was saying about the beautiful view.

  I smoothed out the white tablecloth in front of me, leaned back in my chair, and took a sip of my Coke. I could get used to this. I realized that my mom really had gotten a dream job—except that she had to go home and write a review. I, on the other hand, just had to eat fine food. Ah, to be the son of a food critic! Finally, here was something I could enjoy that wouldn’t put me in great physical danger.

  Yeah, I never learn, do I? Being the son of a food critic was about to land me in the middle of the most dangerous adventure of my life. Not knowing what awaited me, however, I raised my Coke glass and said, “To Mom, getting the best job in the world.”

  The glasses clinked and we were all smiles—until the appetizers arrived! The waiter placed a small white plate in front of me with six slimy looking gray things on it. “What’s this?” I almost shouted.

  “Escargot.”

  “What is it?’

  “Why, it’s snails, of course,” the waiter said, smiling.

  Rishi and Penny laughed. Rishi said, “You’re turning green, Rodney! Maybe I’ll give you a piece of crust from my bread.”

  The waiter plopped down a plate in front of him. “Your sweetbreads, sir.” It didn’t look like any bread I’d ever seen. Rishi queasily looked up. The waiter, wearing a slight grin, said, “I’ve never served sweetbreads to a boy your age. Children don’t often enjoy cow throat. Have fun.”

  It was my turn to laugh.

  Fortunately for both of us, the steak and the duck were really just steak and duck. We also loved the flourless chocolate cake and the other desserts. By the time we got up to leave we were stuffed. My dad, who had almost licked his plate clean, had to unbutton his pants on the ride home—which any food critic would have to agree is the sign of a good meal.

  I should have fallen right to sleep that night but something a lot heavier than the chocolate cake weighed on my mind. Tomorrow would bring football practice, and along with it my new enemy, Trevor. Plus Toby was itching for a fight, Rishi was trying to make me famous, and the girl I liked wasn’t talking to me. Some first day of school. As I drifted off to sleep I thought about the one important lesson I had learned. Escargot is French for gross and never, ever order sweetbreads!

  Chapter 3

  TWIN PROBLEMS

  “You there. You paying attention?”

  It was Mr. Scab, my wood shop teacher. I had been staring at the clock on the wall for half the class, hoping against hope I could slow down time. It was the last period. Football practice was just minutes away.

  Mr. Scab banged on my desk. “What’s your name?”

  “Um, Rodney.”

  “Well, Um-Rodney, I once chose not to pay attention during wood shop. Do you know what happened?”

  “No,” I squeaked.

  “This!” He held up his hand. I swallowed as I looked at his missing pinky. “Think that’s bad?” he continued. “Want me to remove my glass eye?”

  I was trying to decide if he was serious when the bell rang. I headed down the hall, relieved that Mr. Scab hadn’t lost any body parts while talking to me. Unfortunately, my relief was short-lived. I was heading to football practice. My stomach gurgled louder and louder with each step. It was the second day of school and I would soon be helmet-to-helmet with Trevor and his buddies. I rounded the corner. Coach Laimbardi was standing in the crowded hallway outside the gym arguing with a woman. He motioned for me to come over.

  “Rodney, I got some bad news. The nurse says you need to have your parents fill out a permission slip and bring in a record of your physical. Sorry, but it looks like you won’t be able to make practice.”

  No practice? I almost jumped up and down. Finally, some good luck. I let out a deep breath.

  “Rodney!” a man’s voice shouted from down the hallway. “There you are!”

  I turned around—along with every other student—to see my dad waving his arms and heading my way. I sort of waved back thinking, Please go away.

  “Young man, do you know that person?” the nurse asked.

  A crowd of kids began to gather. Great, they would all know I was the one with the weirdo dad. “He’s my father,” I eventually admitted.

  “Excellent!” Coach Laimbardi hollered.

  “Rodney,” my dad called out as he approached us, “I thought I’d come down and watch your first practice.”

  “So you’re my new star’s dad? I’m Head Coach Laimbardi.” I watched the two shake hands. “You know, now that you’re here, you could sign Rodney’s release and he’ll be able to prac—”

  “He will still need a copy of his physical,” the nurse interrupted. I was beginning to like this nurse.

  “Don’t worry,” my dad offered, “now that I have a little more time on my hands I was able to go on the district website and read all the requirements to play interscholastic sports. I got the physical right here! I got his mouthpiece and jock strap, too. You know where this goes, son?” He held up the jock strap.

  “Dad, I know where it goes,” I whispered. By now all I heard was the sound of kids laughing. I couldn’t bear to look up.


  “Well done, Mr. Rathbone!” yelled Laimbardi. “Active parents make all the difference. Now Rodney, go see Assistant Coach Manuel and get fitted for your pads. I’ll see you out on the field. Mr. Rathbone, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Thank you, coach. And Rodney, I’ll pick you up after practice.”

  “Whatever,” I muttered as I walked off to get fitted.

  “Wait,” my dad suddenly shouted from down the hall. “You forgot something.” Please no, I thought, but sure enough I turned around to see my father waving the jock strap high above his head. Luckily, only about two hundred other kids seemed to notice.

  Twenty minutes later I found myself walking out of the tunnel under the gym toward the football practice field. It was my first time wearing football pads. Besides what my dad had brought me, I had on a helmet, shoulder pads, rib protectors, hip pads, a tailbone pad in the back of my pants, thigh pads, kneepads, and a mouth guard. “That’s all you got?” I had asked Coach Manuel. I liked the idea of being covered in a modern-day suit of armor—especially when I got to the field and saw I was the smallest kid on it.

  “Rodney, this is awesome!” Josh barked at me. “I can’t wait!” His eyes sparkled from inside his helmet. Now there was a football player. While he might have been younger than some of the other guys, he was one of the biggest.

  “All right, take a knee over here!” Coach Laimbardi called out. We all huddled around. I could feel sets of eyes staring at me through face masks. Some were friendly. Many were not. Coach Laimbardi cleared his throat. “As most of you know, we’ve been having a tough time the past few years. We haven’t had a winning season in over twelve years. Even worse, we haven’t beaten . . .” He paused and his face scrunched up into a wretched expression. “We haven’t beaten Windham in seventeen years.”

  “Eighteen,” Coach Manuel corrected him.

  Laimbardi scowled at us for a minute. “You hear that? Eighteen years of misery! Whoever said winning isn’t everything never played football. That numbskull certainly didn’t have to endure the jokes and ridicule of Coach Bill Belicheat. He’s always . . . picking on me.” He shook his head and looked at his feet. I thought I saw his lip quiver. His eyes looked damp. “I just want to beat Belicheat and Windham once before I retire.” After a moment his voice sounded strong again. “I was beginning to believe I never would beat them, but yesterday I saw something wondrous. Something that told me the black cloud that’s been hanging over Garrettsville might finally be lifting.”