Mascot

by Antony John

  “She was in second grade.”

  “And now she’s in fourth.”

  “But what’s he like?” I ask again.

  She chews the inside of her cheek. “He’s nice. He saw me unloading groceries last week and . . . Well, we got talking, and he asked if I’d like to have dinner sometime.”

  I wait for the rest of the story, but I guess that’s all there is. “You’re telling me this date is all because he helped you unload groceries?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Noah, it’s not a date!” She hands me a knife and fork. “Anyway, I just thought it would be nice to go out for once. You know, talk to someone.”

  “You can talk to me.”

  “I mean a grown-up.”

  “What about your friends?”

  Mom purses her lips. “I just want to talk to someone who—”

  The microwave timer interrupts her with a loud ding. She takes out the plate and places it on the table next to my homework. I wonder if she’s going to finish her thought, but I’m not sure I want to know where she was going. Someone who . . . is male? Single?

  I remember the last time she wore the blue dress. It was her store’s Christmas party. Dad was wearing his smart gray suit, his hair combed super carefully to make it seem like he wasn’t so bald after all. Not that he was embarrassed about his hair—he just liked to make the best of every situation.

  Like, Dad was always the first parent onto the field after every Little League game. And he always congratulated everyone, even if we lost. And whenever Coach Montgomery chewed his son out in the middle of a game, Dad was always the one leading a cheer for Logan. Not that it ever helped. Logan still picked on me.

  “Eat up,” Mom says, interrupting my thoughts.

  I’m not really hungry, but I don’t want her to feel bad, so I load up my fork. I ought to blow on it, but Flub’s nose has apparently been reactivated, and as he unearths his snout from between my legs and extends his tongue about six inches, I imagine the entire dinner ending up in his stomach. So I gobble the forkful in a single bite.

  Big mistake.

  “Be careful,” Mom says. “It’s hot.”

  She fills a glass with water and hands it to me so that I can douse my burning mouth. The way she keeps handing things to me makes me feel like a little kid, unable to do anything for myself. I hate it, especially because I can still remember when things were so different. When I’d just walk to the sink and stick my mouth under the faucet. Now, I can hardly reach the tap.

  It’s strange all the tiny ways life changes when your butt is stuck in a chair.

  The doorbell rings. Mom runs her hands down her dress like she’s trying to iron out the wrinkles and goes to answer the door. Flub slithers off my lap, lands with a thud on the linoleum floor, and expresses his discomfort with a full-bodied fart.

  I take another bite of lasagna, but it doesn’t taste right. Usually, it’s dense with ricotta and about twenty other cheeses I can’t spell, but tonight it mostly tastes dry.

  I hear Flub barking and Mom and Mr. Dillon greeting each other. Their footsteps clatter against the hardwood floors as they follow the hallway to the kitchen. When he sees me, Mr. Dillon strides over and shakes my hand. He has a strong grip and large fingers that look especially dark against my pasty white skin. “It’s good to see you again, Noah,” he says.

  He’s got a smile a mile wide and a belly to match. I don’t think he’s as big as Double-Wide, but he definitely eats more lasagna than I do.

  “Hmm-hmm,” I reply. Then I see Mom looking hopeful and anxious, so I add, “You too.”

  As Mom smiles, Mr. Dillon sniffs the air meaningfully.

  “It was the dog,” I say.

  “Oh.”

  For a few seconds, we’re all as still as statues, waiting for someone to make the situation less awkward than it obviously is.

  “So,” Mom says, “does the, uh, lasagna taste okay?”

  The honest answer is no. But I’m not sure the problem is with the food, and I don’t want to get into an argument with Mom when the real issue is standing right next to us, so I say, “It’s great.”

  She isn’t convinced. Mom has learned the meaning of my every look, word, and silence, and she knows something is up now.

  “You go enjoy your fancy dinner,” I say.

  Now she looks even more worried. She’d probably bail on Mr. Dillon if I pushed a little, but then I’d be the one feeling guilty instead of her.

  “Seriously, Mom, I’m good.”

  Nodding, Mom walks over and kisses me on the cheek. Then she tears off a piece of paper towel and uses it to wipe away the lipstick print. Did I say she was making me feel like a little kid? Scratch that—I feel like a baby.

  “Kathy will pop in soon to check on you,” she says.

  “Awesome,” I reply in my most un-awesome voice.

  “And you know my number.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I know your number.”

  “And I can come back if you need me.”

  “In that new invention they’re calling the automobile.”

  “Don’t be cheeky,” she says, forcing a smile.

  “And don’t be late,” I shoot back. “I’d really hate to ground you.”

  Mom chuckles. Mr. Dillon is still flashing his pearly-white smile like an actor in a toothpaste commercial. I’d give anything to wipe that smug look off his face.

  “All right, then,” Mom says.

  She turns and leaves the kitchen. Mr. Dillon trails after her. Ten seconds later, the front door opens and closes and I’m alone, wondering why lying is sometimes the only way to make someone feel better.

  I push the lasagna away. Push the math homework away. Roll backward and wheel myself around the table and past the appliances. Once I’m across the hallway and into the living room I start up Mom’s old desktop computer and play Minecraft.

  Within seconds, I’m building an entirely new world—one with the soaring towers of downtown St. Louis and awesome views across the Mississippi River. And the more I add, the more I leave behind all the things I don’t want in the real world: Logan Montgomery and baseball, Dynamo Duric and physical therapy. And most of all, Mr. Dillon and any version of my mother that would date him.

  7

  PE Is Not My Friend

  Wellspring Middle School has alternating schedules for A and B days, which means that the next day, Tuesday, is a PE day. And PE means quality time with Mrs. Friendly.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Friendly is not very friendly. If I had to teach middle school PE, I wouldn’t be very friendly either, but she’s an ex-marine, so she’s been trained to be angry. She’s also the nearest thing our school has to a celebrity, because she spends her summers doing CrossFit competitions on TV.

  No one messes with Mrs. Friendly.

  On day one of seventh grade, Mrs. Friendly spoke to my mom and said, “I want your son to be involved. Do you want your son to be involved? Or do you want him to sit on the sidelines and watch?” What she was really saying was: “I like to torment students. Do you want me to torment your son too? Or do you want him to be an outcast?”

  If I’d been around for this conversation, I would’ve told Mom that being an outcast actually makes a whole lot of sense. For example, outcasts don’t get hurt. But Mom is scared of Mrs. Friendly because Mom is smart, so apparently she just nodded and said, “Whatever you think is best.”

  That’s why I’m sitting in my wheelchair in the middle of the gym, watching Logan Montgomery warming up for a massive kick at home plate. I can’t believe we’re still playing kickball in middle school, but Mrs. Friendly is all about competition and team building. Logan is not on my team, but I’m pretty sure he’s determined to kick the ball to me, just to see if I can still catch.

  “You okay?” Double-Wide asks from behind me.

  I crane my neck around to look at him. Wisely, he has taken up the farthest fielding position in the gym. He’s so far from home plate, he could take a step backward and leav
e the gym completely.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  This is a lie. I am not fine. I’m thinking about how Mom was smiling when she got home last night. I haven’t seen her crack a smile in months, but a couple hours with Mr. Dillon and she’s happy again. I am absolutely not okay with Mom having a boyfriend. It’s bad enough that she makes me do PE.

  Alyssa, our team’s pitcher, is preparing to roll the ball toward Logan. He has a crazy smile on his face, like the villain in a comic strip.

  “Why is Logan looking at you like that?” Double-Wide asks me.

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  “Why?”

  I’m trying to focus on sending negative vibes to Mr. Dillon, but Double-Wide won’t stop until I answer. “We used to play on the same Little League team.”

  “You played baseball?” he exclaims. “With Logan?”

  “I was the starting catcher.”

  “No way!”

  I whip my chair around. “Yes way! And if you must know, I was pretty good. They called me Velcro, because pitches stuck to my glove.”

  “Cool.” Double-Wide scratches his neck. “What did you use to make the ball stick?”

  “Nothing! It’s just what you say when a catcher never drops the ball.”

  He probably has more questions, but just then I hear Logan kick the ball. Gripping the high-pressure tires, I spin around and zone in on the ball—just in time to get an up-close view as it beans me.

  It’s a full-facial hit. Literally, not an inch of my face escapes the inflated rubber. For a split second, it compresses to follow the contours of my nose and cheeks and lips. Because my mouth is open, a few molecules probably even touch my tongue.

  For how many years have middle school students been touching this ball? How many times has it rolled across the dirty gym floor? How many times has it been kicked by sneakers that have traces of dog poop on them?

  How much of that dirt and dog poop is now on my face? And in my mouth?

  “Are you okay?” Double-Wide asks.

  I’m too embarrassed to answer that. Plus, I can’t stop thinking about the poop. My saliva tastes really weird.

  Alyssa stands alone in the pitcher’s circle. She has this pitying look, like she’s watching a movie of a stranded baby sea lion.

  I am not a stranded baby sea lion.

  “Next play, Savino,” says Mrs. Friendly. “Just focus on the next play.”

  Next play?! Is she kidding? My spit tastes of middle school germs and sneaker poop. And my nose hurts too.

  Logan skips around the bases and slides into home plate like he’s scoring the winning run in game seven of the World Series. His teammates help him up, and they all bump fists. In contrast, my teammates do not rush over and congratulate me. They do not bump my fist. Heck, they won’t even look at me. It’s like they’re pretending nothing happened. As if they haven’t just witnessed the most humiliating thing in the entire history of middle school PE.

  Alyssa glares at Logan. Logan flicks his head casually and grins right back at her. Winning never gets old for Logan.

  “Why did you slide?” Alyssa calls out to him.

  The gym gets a little quieter. Logan shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “You were showboating. In a real game, the pitcher would aim the next ball at your body.”

  “Lucky you’re not a real pitcher, then, isn’t it?”

  His teammates reward him with cheers, but only until Alyssa begins striding toward him. “You think you’re so special, huh?”

  “I scored on you, didn’t I?”

  Alyssa snorts. “In kickball.”

  “Like you’d be better off playing baseball!”

  “Why don’t we find out?”

  Alyssa has never liked Logan, but she’s also never been crazy enough to go toe-to-toe with him at home plate either. Now she’s caught him off guard. He shoots a curious look at Mrs. Friendly like he’s waiting for her to intervene. But like I say, Mrs. Friendly is all about competition, even when there are no TV cameras.

  For the first time in as long as I can remember, Logan seems on edge. He frowns, but then the swagger is back and he begins to laugh. “Whatever,” he says.

  “What are you afraid of?” Alyssa growls. “Losing? Or losing to a girl?”

  It’s the “girl” part that gets to him. Logan’s never backed down from a fight in his life—heck, he’s started most of them—and he can’t give in to Alyssa now. It’s not in his DNA.

  “Fine,” he says. “You’re on.”

  “Good.” With her fists jammed against her hips, Alyssa looks like an outlaw from a Wild West movie. “Tomorrow, lunchtime. I pitch to you. You pitch to me. Whoever gets the out wins.”

  “And who’s going to catch, huh?” Logan asks, once it’s clear he’s not getting out of the arrangement. “Or did you forget that part?”

  Alyssa looks over her shoulder, and her eyes find me. I shake my head, but it’s too late. Alyssa has a plan, and I’m in it.

  “Noah,” she says. “He’ll be perfect.”

  8

  Small Portions

  At lunch on Wednesday, Double-Wide seems worried. “This isn’t a lot of food,” he says, eyeing the calorie-controlled portion.

  “No,” I agree, “it’s not. But once you’ve tasted it, you might be grateful they don’t give you much.”

  He tugs at the collar of his rust-colored polo shirt. “That bad, huh?”

  “Let’s just say, the meat comes straight from PetSmart.”

  “Seriously?”

  I sigh. “No. Not really.”

  Even if he doesn’t appreciate my major league–level sarcasm skills, I’m glad to have Double-Wide around, especially at lunchtime. Alyssa’s been sitting with me most days since I broke away from the baseball posse, but I sometimes wonder if she’s doing it for the same reason Mrs. Friendly makes me do PE: she doesn’t want me to be an outcast.

  Double-Wide and I make a beeline for the farthest corner of the cafeteria because it’s a safe distance from Logan. A couple minutes later, Alyssa grabs her lunch and heads toward us.

  “Noah,” begins Double-Wide, “are you and Alyssa . . . you know . . . together?”

  “Together?” I say. “No! We’re just friends.”

  Actually, it’s a little more complicated than that. Alyssa always had my back in elementary school, especially when Logan mouthed off at me. But when I started hanging out with the team in sixth grade, things changed. One day she caught me smiling as Logan picked on a teammate, and I could see she was shocked. I wanted to explain that I wasn’t smiling because it was funny. I was just grateful that he wasn’t picking on me for a change. But I was ashamed to admit I never stood up for myself, so I kept quiet. After that, it got harder to talk to Alyssa about other things too.

  Anyway, it’s not like she didn’t have lots else going on last year. She joined a book club and started taking photographs for the yearbook. In the spring, she got moved up a grade for Language Arts, so we saw even less of each other. But after my accident, she was the first person from school to visit me in the hospital. She came by most days after that too, and it was like being back in elementary school, riding the bus together, just talking. I like being friends with her again.

  But real friends don’t rope their disabled friends into catching pitches delivered by a hulking nemesis with an arm like a cannon.

  Not that Alyssa is showing any signs of remorse. She pulls up a chair and nods at me, all smiles. “Hey, Noah. Hey, Ruben.”

  “Please, call me Double-Wide,” he says.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Or Dee-Dub. My dad came up with that. Says it sounds better.”

  “Dee-Dub?” I ask.

  “Yeah. It’s short for D-W. You know, the abbreviation for Double-Wide.”

  Alyssa wears the frozen smile of someone trying to make nice with a grizzly bear. “O-okay . . . Dee-Dub.”

  As she spreads a napkin neatly across her lap, Dee-Dub and I tuck i
n to our soggy burgers and smashed potatoes. We each have precisely three carrot sticks too. Maybe there’s a world carrot stick shortage so the school has to ration us.

  “Do you always use a napkin?” Dee-Dub asks Alyssa.

  She nods. “Helps to keep my clothes stain free.” She waves her hands across her chest like a game-show hostess unveiling tonight’s grand prize: a black-and-yellow striped T-shirt. Then she stops suddenly. “Are you checking out my boobs again, Noah?”

  My eyes shoot upward. “What? No! I was looking at your T-shirt.”

  “It’s a very nice T-shirt,” Dee-Dub agrees. “Makes you look like a bumblebee.”

  Alyssa sighs. “So, tell me about Albuquerque. That’s where you came from, right?”

  Dee-Dub nods. “Well, there’s a lot of desert. It’s not humid like it is here. It’s not as green either.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Alyssa tries to stab a carrot with her fork but ends up chasing it around the plate. “What about your friends? You must miss them.”

  Dee-Dub stares at his half-eaten burger. “I didn’t have a lot of friends.”

  “Oh.” Alyssa makes eye contact with me as if this is news. Me, I’m not surprised at all. Dee-Dub says weird stuff, he’s huge, and he wears odd clothes. He’s like the Bermuda Triangle of impossibility, the trifecta of terribleness: strange, big, uncool.

  But you know what? It really doesn’t matter. Because as I scope out the cafeteria, I’m pretty sure there are still more people gawking at me than at him.

  Sometimes you don’t need the trifecta. One thing—just one thing—can be enough to make sure you stand out. And getting roped into a baseball game with Logan and Alyssa definitely isn’t going to help.

  The crazy thing is, she only challenged Logan to get back at him for the kickball fiasco. Doesn’t she realize that when he unleashes his vicious fastball or smacks her pitch with his powerful swing, we’ll end up looking even more pathetic?

  I put down my plastic fork. “This pitch-off is a bad idea.”