At least, that’s what I thought.
BLENDING IN
That day in art, Ms. Donatello had a question for all of us.
“How many of you have seen these ‘SAM’ drawings around school this week?” she asked.
(Awesome alert. Stand by for awesome.)
Every single hand went up. (Awesome!) And of course, I raised my hand along with everyone else, because: (1) I had seen those drawings, and (2) duh. It’s called blending in.
“Can anyone tell me the name of the painting that was depicted on the flagpole this morning?” Ms. Donatello asked next.
Nobody knew, and I sure wasn’t going to tell them. I just shrugged my shoulders like I’d never thought about it.
For a while after that, Ms. D talked about The Scream, and Edvard Munch, and then I’m not sure what else because my head was too busy exploding from the inside. I was loving every single second of this. And my cheeks were getting the workout of a lifetime, just trying not to smile.
But then after class, Ms. Donatello threw me a little curveball.
“See you Monday, Rafe. Keep setting those sights high,” she told me. “And try to stay out of trouble, okay?”
It was the kind of thing she said all the time. Except this time, there was something about the way she said it, like it was code for something else. It made me wonder if she’d been talking about SAM for a reason. Like maybe Ms. Donatello was even smarter than I thought.
Or maybe SAM wasn’t as stealthy as I thought.
Or both.
Either way, it was like I said before—why take chances? I was going to have to be more careful than ever from now on.
GAME FACE
Before I knew it, we were at game day. First game of the season! The team was all suited up. Mom was there. Mr. Fanucci was there. Jeanne Galletta was there. Everyone was there.
Once we did our warm-ups, they introduced the team over the loudspeaker, and all the guys ran through this giant piece of paper that said GO, FALCONS! Or at least, the guys at the front did. I was at the back, so I just ran over some little scraps of paper by the time I got there.
After that, it was time for the game to start. And I’ll admit it—I didn’t mind taking a nice safe seat on the bench one little bit. I’d already told Mom she shouldn’t bother coming, since Coach Shumsky wasn’t putting me in. But she said she wanted to be there anyway. When I looked up in the stands, she was sitting with Georgia and Grandma, waving these Falcon banners like they were born football fans.
The game was against our archrivals—Southside Middle School. But nobody expected us to win. Hills Village never beats Southside at anything. And while I sat there on that bench and the game got going, I started thinking about what a weird concept that is. I mean, how can another school—basically buildings and lawns and a parking lot—be our archrival?
Then after a while, I started thinking about some other stuff, like what I wanted to draw next for Operation: S.A.M. It was going to be something different—a picture of The Thinker, which is this cool sculpture by a guy named Rodin. I kind of wished I had my sketch pad with me, since I was getting some good ideas and I had all this time on my hands—
“OOOOHHHHH!”
That was the sound the crowd made all of a sudden. And I realized I hadn’t exactly been paying attention. When I looked up again, the scoreboard said VISITORS: 21 HOME: 0. Southside was kicking our butts, no surprise.
But that wasn’t all. Something had happened on the field. Flip was limping, with his arm around Assistant Coach Flynn’s shoulder for support. Tug Vincent was holding his own arm against his chest. And our quarterback, Michael Alvarez, had an ice pack on his head.
I guess flag football was rougher than I thought. I’d been too busy up inside my head to even realize what was going on. Now three of our best players were out, and the crushing by Southside was really going to start. I even felt sorry for the guys Coach was going to send in next, because from the way Flip, Tug, and Michael were looking, it didn’t seem like—
“KHATCHADORIAN! ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?”
Ooops! (That’s kind of a bad habit of mine.) This time when I looked up, Coach Shumsky was pointing right at me.
“What’s up, Coach?” I said.
“I’m not going to tell you twice,” he said. “Take that jacket off and get in there!”
My heart felt like it had just started playing a little tackle football of its own, right inside my chest.
“Me?” I said.
“You know any other Khatchadorians around here?” he said.
People were cheering for the guys who had just come off the field—and also for the ones who were about to go in. Including me!
And as I got up onto my feet, all I could think now was—Welcome to the meat grinder.
HERE GOES NOTHING
People were cheering and yelling when I stepped out onto that field, but I couldn’t hear it anymore. All I could hear was that siren inside my head—the one telling me to run, duck, take cover, and GET OUT OF THERE! My knees were shaking for real, and I wondered if I was going to throw up on the ground, on my shoes, on the other players, or all of the above.
Even if I didn’t get hurt, I was definitely going to humiliate myself. In front of everyone. Including Jeanne.
“Coach, I… I don’t think I can,” I said.
“Kid, it’s just football,” Coach Shumsky said. “This is your chance to go have some fun.”
“Um… okay—”
“I’m kidding,” Coach said. “Get in there. Go get ’em. You know the drill. Sic ’em!”
Ha-ha. What a funny guy, I thought. Coach Shumsky was a real comedian. Because anyone who thought this was going to be fun was a COMPLETE JOKER!
But I still had to get in there. No turning back now.
I joined the huddle with a couple of other subs. Miller took over for Tug at quarterback, and he already had the play from Coach.
“Baines, Harrison, Abuja, start wide and go deep. They’ve got their biggest guys in the middle. Let’s see if we can get around them.”
“What about me?” I said.
“Block number eighteen,” Miller said.
When I looked up, I could see a guy with a big 18 on his back, huddling with the Southside team. As far as I could tell, this kid was somewhere between the size of an eighth grader and a house.
“Can I trade for someone else?” I asked Miller, but it was too late.
“We’ll go on two,” he said. “Break!” And just like that, we went into our positions.
Now that I could see number eighteen up close, he looked like a cross between a jackal and a serial killer. And I was pretty sure he could wad me up and toss me like a paper towel if he wanted to.
I mean, you’re not allowed to actually tackle anyone in flag ball, but let me put it this way: How would YOU feel if someone told you to block THIS?
I couldn’t remember what kind of stance I was supposed to do, so I just bent my knees and waited for the play to start. Or more like, prayed for it to be over fast.
“Rover twenty-three!” Miller said. “Hike! Hike!” I was probably supposed to know what that Rover thing meant too, but there was no time to think about it. Jason Carmichael made the snap, and everything started moving at once.
I’ll give myself credit for this much—I actually reached for the big guy. I tried to stay low like I was supposed to, but I think I closed my eyes for a millisecond. By the time I was done blinking, number eighteen had done some kind of spinning twisty thing, right past me. He was heading for Miller, who still had the ball, and I thought, Well, I tried. Sort of. Hopefully it would be over in about a second.
And that, my friends… THAT… is when the unthinkable happened.
Miller grinned—he actually smiled—right before he threw me the ball. It came like a spinning time bomb, right at my head, and right through some kind of hole that hadn’t been there a second ago.
All I could think was… actually, I thought a whole lot
of stuff, but it all happened at the same time.
So, which one of all those things do you think won out?
(Hint: It might not be the one you expect. Keep reading and find out.)
RUNNING SCARED
The first thing I got moving was my hands, believe it or not. It wasn’t pretty, and no, there were no fingertips involved—but just like that… I’D CAUGHT THE BALL!
And even crazier, I didn’t drop it!
If I could have, I would have played hot potato with Miller and tossed it right back. But that wasn’t going to happen.
“RUN!” I could hear Coach screaming. “RUN, KHATCHADO—”
I didn’t hear any more, because my feet kicked in next. All those Southside guys were looking at me like I was dinner and they hadn’t eaten in days. So yes, I took off running like I was supposed to.
It’s just too bad I ran in the wrong direction.
“NOOOOOO!” pretty much everyone screamed at the same time, except for the other team. I kept expecting one of those flags on my belt to get whipped out, but so far, it hadn’t happened. When I caught sight of Coach Shumsky on the sidelines, his face was somewhere between Smurf blue and plum purple. His scream was so high by now, I would have needed dogs’ ears to hear it.
I heard Flip, though. He was on the bench and yelling one word over and over, plenty loud enough.
“BACON!” he screamed. “BACON! BACON! BACON!”
So I just kept on moving.
I’m not sure what made me run backward next, but I don’t think anyone was expecting that. It got me headed toward the right end of the field, anyway.
Then I ran sideways. I zipped. I zagged. I turned and zagged again, like Junior was about to bite my heels off.
And that’s when I saw a little slice of daylight, right between two of those giants from Southside. It was just enough for skinny little me to squeeze through.
After that, all I could see was the end zone at the far end of the field, about a mile away. (Okay, maybe more like forty yards.)
And I just kept on running.
All I could feel now was my legs pumping. All I could taste was the blood in my mouth (I bit my tongue when I caught the ball—oops). All I could hear was the crowd in the stands—and they were cheering for ME!
If I hadn’t been there myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. In fact, I still don’t believe it.
But it was true.
TOUCHDOWN!
Ten yards to go…
nine…
eight…
seven…
six…
five…
four…
three…
two…
one, and—
TOUCHDOWN!
KHATCHADORIAN SCORES!
RIGHT BEFORE HE DIES OF SHOCK!
I couldn’t believe it. Like, actually couldn’t believe it. I kept wondering when Georgia was going to start shaking me and yelling at me to wake up, because this had to be a dream, right?
Rafe Khatchadorian. Had just scored. A TOUCHDOWN.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to keep saying it over and over again. It just took me a second to figure out that it was really happening. That was right about when Flip jumped on my back and started screaming, “Hills Village SCOOOOOOORES!!!” and “KhatchaDOOOORian!” and “YEEEEAH, BABY! TOUCHDOWN!”
The whole team piled on after Flip. I didn’t just get congratulated. I got mugged. Seriously. It hurt. I guess there’s no rule in flag football about tackling your own players.
But I didn’t mind. It was still one of the best things that had ever happened to me, just in a slap-on-the-back, punch-in-the-arm, break-a-few-ribs kind of way.
I know, it’s not like we won the Super Bowl or anything. But the thing is, Hills Village hadn’t scored against Southside since… ever. So it was kind of a big deal. Which made me kind of a big deal for a minute there.
Were we still going to lose the game? Well, put it this way: Does a bear poop in the woods? Yes and yes.
But no matter what happened after that, nobody could ever take those six points away from me. Not even Mrs. Stricker and Mrs. Stonecase. And for the first time in the history of me and middle school, I could actually be happy about something going onto my permanent record.
Go, Falcons, go!
GIRL TROUBLE, ON THE DOUBLE
After the game was over (Southside 38, Hills Village 6), Mom gave me a big hug, and then Grandma gave me one of her freaky-strong HUGE hugs. Seriously, Dotty could hug the skin off a boa constrictor if she wanted to.
“Next stop, the NBA!” Grandma said.
“Do you mean the NFL?” I asked her.
“That too,” she said. Grandma’s not exactly a sports fan, but at least she’s a Rafe fan.
Even Georgia was a tiny bit impressed. “I guess you’re going to need a bigger helmet,” she told me, “because I can see your head blowing up already.”
“We don’t wear helmets,” I said.
“Whatever,” she said. “Congratulations, I guess.”
Then Mom said she was taking us all to Swifty’s for burgers, including Flip if he wanted, and I told her I’d go find out.
Which I did. But first, I made a quick swing by the snack bar—also known as accidentally-on-purpose-bumping-into-Jeanne-Galletta-after-I’d-scored-a-touchdown. (I mean, seriously, can you blame me?)
Jeanne was just packing up the candy bars and soda cups when I got there.
“Hi, Rafe!” she said. “Great job today!”
“Oh, hi, Jeanne,” I said, like I didn’t even know she was going to be there. But we could have had ESPN reporters all around us and the president of the United States asking for my autograph, and the only person I would have seen was Jeanne, Jeanne, Jeanne.
“I heard you scored a touchdown,” Jeanne said.
“You… heard?” I said.
“We were pretty busy, so I didn’t get to see the game,” she told me.
“Oh, gotcha,” I said, trying to sound like I wasn’t totally bummed out now. I’d just had my Big Moment, and Jeanne was too busy putting fake butter on popcorn to notice.
“Well, uh… that’s okay. I was just coming over to get a Snickers,” I said. Right before—
“Hi, Rafe!” someone else said behind me.
I turned around and Marley Grote was standing there. I’d known Marley since about first grade. She was okay, I guess.
“Hey, Marley,” I said.
“You were awesome today!” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, but I was still looking at Jeanne.
“How did you know all that running around was going to work?” Marley said. “It was crazy! Mega-crazy!”
I’ll bet you anything Marley is someone’s little sister. It’s like they’re all programmed to show up and start talking at exactly the wrong time.
“Sorry, Marley,” I said, “but Jeanne and I were kind of having a conversation.”
Jeanne looked up like she was thinking, We were?
“Oh,” Marley said. Then she laughed. I don’t know why. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in school,” she told me, and ran over to where Amy Bernstein was waiting. The two of them started whispering and they walked away like they were attached at the head.
When I looked back at Jeanne again, she didn’t seem too happy. In fact, she had her mad-at-Rafe face on. Believe me, I know what that one looks like. I just wasn’t sure how I’d blown it this time.
“What?” I said.
“That was so rude,” she said.
“It was?”
“Marley obviously likes you—”
“She does?”
“And you just completely blew her off. Nice going.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Why did Jeanne think Marley liked me? How could she tell so fast?
And what were the chances of getting a do-over on this one?
Jeanne took a deep breath and shook her head like I was some kind of lost cause. Or like that touchdown didn’t mean any
thing at all.
“I’ll see you later, Rafe,” she said.
“But…” I said.
“I have to close up,” she said.
“But… but… Snickers?” I said. Right before she slammed that snack bar window closed in my face. And on my heart. Again.
I know, I know. I’m pathetic. I have a better chance of throwing a pool party on the sun than I do of getting Jeanne Galletta to fall in love with me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still want her to like me, or at least think I’m not a complete jerk. The truth is, Jeanne’s been there for me more than once. If she ever needed anything, all she’d have to do is ask.
But unless GO AWAY counted as needing something from me, I didn’t think that was going to be happening anytime soon.
Better luck next lifetime.
COOL KIDS’ TABLE
Hang on. The good parts of this story aren’t over yet. In fact, some of the best stuff is coming up. (And then some of the worst too. It’s kind of a roller-coaster ride from here to the end, so hold on tight.)
The next day at school, a lot of people were really nice to me. They were saying stuff like “What a touchdown!” and “Way to go, Khatchadorian.” Which was a weird feeling. Usually it was more like “What a dork!” and “Get out of the way, Khatchadorian.”
I put up some new art too. It was my drawing of The Thinker, but in honor of the Falcons, I added a little extra something this time.
That one went right on the trophy case. And here’s a shocker for you: Mrs. Stricker walked right by it and let it stay up for a while. Which made it a pretty good day for SAM and for Rafe.
In English, Quinn Richardson told me he was having a party that Saturday at his house. I was pretty sure that meant I was invited, but I wasn’t positive.
Then at lunch, I came into the cafeteria, and all the Falcons were eating at the same big table.
“Over here!” Flip said, and waved at me to come sit down.
Just My Rotten Luck Page 6