Mascot

by Antony John

  Dee-Dub puffs out his cheeks. “No offense, Noah, but it sounds like you don’t know him at all.”

  “I do! His name is Odell Dillon. He works at Busch Stadium. His wife left him last year. And now he keeps hanging out with my mom, and I’m sick of it!”

  I shut up quickly. If I’m not careful, Mom will hear me.

  Dee-Dub doesn’t say anything, but he leaves Minecraft and opens a new browser window. Then he enters all the information I just told him about Mr. Dillon. A moment later, he’s zipping through pages of results. “Odell Dillon,” he says, scanning a page. “Elizabeth Avenue. Thirty-eight years old. Refuse consultant.”

  It takes me a moment to translate “refuse consultant” into plain English. I think it means trash collector.

  “What do you want to know about him?” Dee-Dub asks.

  I’m not sure how to answer that. I suppose what I’d really like is some dirt on Mr. Dillon that means it’s okay for me to hate him. I bet that Dee-Dub could find some too—his specialty is problems with a clear and quantifiable solution. But a part of me feels bad for Mr. Dillon now. It’s not like anyone grows up dreaming about collecting trash for a living.

  Dee-Dub must be tired of waiting, because he returns to Minecraft and begins work on the decorative lake beside the arch. It clearly doesn’t meet his standards of aquatic perfection. I could point out that it’s my lake and my city, but it’s not like I own St. Louis. If he can make it more perfect, I should probably let him.

  “I’ve been thinking about Wednesday’s pitch-off,” he says, eyes fixed on the screen. “About how you caught Logan’s pitches every time. It was extremely impressive.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I used to practice a lot before my accident. My dad and I would go to Berra Park, and he’d throw balls to me.”

  Dee-Dub puffs out his cheeks. “He must’ve been an amazing pitcher.”

  “Terrible, actually. That’s why I got good at catching. I never knew where the ball was going to go.” I let out a little laugh. “Come to think of it, neither did he. Which is kind of amazing considering how many Cardinals games we went to.”

  I expect Dee-Dub to smile, but he seems deep in thought. When he returns his attention to the monitor, I can guess what’s coming. “Where is your dad, Noah?”

  “I’d rather not talk about that right now.”

  “Okay.” Step by step, he improves my world. “But where is he?”

  “Geez, Dee-Dub! He’s dead, okay?”

  How will he respond? Will it be . . .

  (1) Shocked silence followed by an apology, like he’s responsible?

  (2) A heartfelt quotation from the bible (or one of those poems that uses really long, old-fashioned words)?

  (3) Sudden, sympathetic weeping? (This is my least favorite.)

  Dee-Dub takes a deep breath and nods. “So, how’d he die?”

  Seriously? Trust Dee-Dub to create a number four.

  “Like I said, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Gotcha.” He finishes the lake, which glistens under the light of an artificial sun, and begins to level the uneven ground on the other side of the Gateway Arch. “Was it cancer?”

  I sigh. “No. It wasn’t cancer.”

  “A bowel infection?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Cholera?”

  “What’s cholera?”

  “This really nasty disease they have in third-world countries where there’s no sanitation. I read about it.”

  “Why would my dad die of that?”

  He grunts. “No idea. But I was running out of natural causes.”

  “Car accident!” I snap. “He died in a freaking car accident.”

  “Oh,” says Dee-Dub. “You must miss him a lot.”

  “Yeah.”

  Then I wonder: How much is a lot? When I was in the hospital, I thought about my dad all the time. Then I left and I thought about him almost every hour. I still think about him every day but not like I used to. It’s like he’s slipping away from me all over again. I feel sad when I think of him and guilty when I don’t.

  Dee-Dub is focused on the game again, so he doesn’t notice me wiping tears from my cheeks.

  “Do you always ask whatever you want?” I say.

  “Yeah. My parents say I’m lacking in social graces.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He leans back in the office chair and admires his Minecraft empire. I have to admit, it’s a really pretty version of our city. Hard to imagine that anything bad could happen in a city like that.

  Which goes to show how unrealistic Minecraft is. And how much more there is to life than the things we can see.

  14

  Fly Ball!

  Once he’s rebuilt every part of the Gateway Arch grounds, Dee-Dub starts recreating the Mississippi River. That’s when the doorbell rings.

  “Have I been here two hours?” he asks me.

  “No.” I wonder if it’s Makayla come looking for her dad. “Come on. I need your help to get rid of someone.”

  He follows me out of the living room and along the hallway. He even stands beside me as I wrestle open the front door, which must make us seem like a pretty forceful pair—almost like those guys in the X-Men movies: Xavier and Magneto. Well, except that I’m no genius, and the only metal that Dee-Dub bends is the stuff on Minecraft. Not that it matters, anyway, because our guest isn’t Makayla.

  “Hi, Dee-Dub,” says Alyssa brightly. She has a baseball bat slung over her shoulder. “I didn’t know you were here too.”

  Dee-Dub looks uncertainly from Alyssa to me and back again. “I’m here to help get rid of you.”

  Alyssa frowns. “What?”

  “No,” I say, frantically waving my hands. “Dee-Dub’s got it all wrong. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Do you often try to get rid of visitors?” she asks calmly.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “No kidding.” She puffs out her cheeks. “So, are you ready for our practice?”

  “Shoot. I totally forgot!”

  “What practice?” asks Dee-Dub, who probably wants to keep practicing Minecraft.

  “Logan wanted a pitching rematch,” Alyssa explains. “Noah said yes.”

  Dee-Dub scrunches up his face. “I don’t know, Noah. I’m not sure you’ll be able to pitch as well as Logan.”

  “I’m catching,” I say.

  “And I’m pitching,” says Alyssa, with a wave of her hand.

  “Oh. Then we definitely need to practice,” says Dee-Dub, strolling through the door. The Mississippi River will have to wait a while longer for its makeover, I guess.

  Alyssa steps aside to let him pass. “You still okay with this?” she asks me gently.

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  I wheel myself along the hallway and grab my mask and Dad’s old-fashioned catcher’s mitt from the basket at the bottom of the kitchen cupboard. I put the mitt there after Dad died because I couldn’t stand to look at it anymore, and it wasn’t like I had any use for it. Not until today, anyway. It feels strange to hold it again, with its familiar scent and soft brown leather all scuffed from years of playing catch together.

  There are three steps leading from our porch to the path. That might not sound like much, but it may as well be Mount Everest when you’re in a wheelchair. Even the temporary wooden ramp built off to the side is a little steep, so I have to take it real slow. If I lose control, I’ll face-plant onto concrete.

  Alyssa waits for me. “I like Dee-Dub,” she says as he ambles along the street twenty yards ahead of us. “He’s, uh, quirky.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Kind of strange that he didn’t start school until now, though, right?”

  “I guess. I haven’t asked him about it.”

  Across the street, old Mr. Riggieri is sitting in his rocker on the front porch. “You kids playing baseball?” he calls out.

  “Seems lik
e it!” I shout back.

  “You don’t look like any team I’ve ever seen.” He sucks on the inside of his mouth. “This should be good.”

  “Ignore him,” says Alyssa as we slide between parked cars. “He has no idea what’s coming.”

  He’s not the only one. Last time Alyssa pitched, she hobbled the mighty Logan Montgomery. Dee-Dub’s parents won’t be happy if she performs the same trick on their son.

  Alyssa hands Dee-Dub the bat, and he and I head down the street a few more yards.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” I tell him. “Today, you’re just here to give us a strike zone. Don’t swing at the ball.”

  “Affirmative,” he says. “About that . . . Does Alyssa realize there are cars parked on either side of the street?”

  “Hey! My aim isn’t that bad,” she says.

  Dee-Dub looks at me. I look at Dee-Dub. I’m not sure we agree with her.

  Once we’re ready, Alyssa pulls a ball from her shorts pocket and rubs it between her hands. Then she nods at me like I’ve just given her a signal and corkscrews her body—left leg cocked, right arm pulled back. In a flash, she unwinds.

  The ball hisses though the air and comes to a dead stop in Dee-Dub’s gut.

  “Gnffff!” He drops the bat and doubles over. “Gnnnn!”

  Mr. Riggieri erupts in laughter.

  “Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry!” cries Alyssa. She chases the ball down before it rolls under a car. “Are you okay?”

  Dee-Dub peers up at her. “Ow,” he says.

  “The pitch totally got away from me!” She stares at the ball accusingly. “The velocity was good, though, right?”

  “Not for Dee-Dub it wasn’t,” I say.

  She purses her lips. “Let’s do it again.”

  Dee-Dub looks scared. “Do I have to?” he whimpers.

  “She’ll make adjustments,” I assure him. “It’s what pitchers do.”

  I slide my glove down and away a couple inches. We’re working the corner of the strike zone here, which should reduce the chance of her whacking Dee-Dub again.

  Alyssa winds up and unleashes another fastball. This one stays down. Down, down, down, and in, where it makes contact with the edge of Dee-Dub’s sneaker.

  “Daaaa!” He hops up and down. “My ffffffffff!”

  Mr. Riggieri is laughing hysterically and smacking his thigh like a crazy man, which isn’t very nice.

  “Oh, geez! Sorry!” shouts Alyssa. “But I was closer that time, right?”

  “Closer to what?” I ask.

  She retrieves the ball as Dee-Dub bites back the pain. What are his parents going to say when they come to pick him up? He looks like a boxer who’s already been knocked down twice and can’t decide whether to keep fighting or stay down for the count.

  When he finally stands, there’s something different about him. He seems tense, like a coiled spring. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he wants to pulverize the ball.

  “Focus on the middle of the zone,” I tell Alyssa. “Go for location, not speed.”

  She gives a brisk nod and winds up. This time the ball heads straight for my glove. It’s a perfect pitch. Absolutely freaking perfect.

  At least until Dee-Dub swings the bat.

  It happens in an instant: a swing so powerful that the bat tip slices the air like a whip. There’s a loud crack, and instead of holding the ball in my mitt, I’m watching it sail upward, upward, upward.

  For a couple seconds, I wonder if I’ve ever seen a ball hit so hard or fly so high. Then it stops rising, crests, and begins to fall. And my thoughts shift to the even bigger question of where it will land.

  Alyssa dances around, hands up, trying to put herself in position to make the catch. She isn’t wearing a glove, but I don’t think she cares. She’s willing to take one for the team because the alternative could be catastrophic.

  The ball picks up speed as it drops. “I’ve got it!” Alyssa shouts as if there are other fielders fighting her for the chance to make the catch. “I’ve got it!”

  Except she hasn’t got it. She collides with Mr. Riggieri’s Buick and topples over. A half second later, the ball collides with the same car.

  The windshield, to be precise.

  The sound of shattering glass only lasts a moment, but that’s plenty long enough for Mr. Riggieri to stop laughing.

  Heaving herself off the ground, Alyssa stares at me. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice shaking. “It’s all my fault. Do you know whose car this is?”

  Oh, yes. I know whose car it is, all right. He’s sitting on his porch, sucking the inside of his mouth thoughtfully.

  “Sorry, Mr. Riggieri!” I yell. “It was an accident.”

  Dee-Dub shakes his head. “Not really. I meant to hit the ball.”

  Alyssa glares at him. “But you didn’t mean to hit the car!”

  “That’s true,” says Dee-Dub. “But I wasn’t really thinking about the whole landing issue.”

  Mr. Riggieri steps down from his porch gingerly and approaches his car. I’m not sure why. A smashed-in window looks the same from any angle.

  I wheel over to him. “We’ll pay for the damage,” I say.

  “It’s not a cheap fix,” he replies sternly. He rubs his cheeks, the skin as worn as old leather. “I’m not sure I understand why you’re playing baseball on a residential street in the first place. What if you’d hit a kid? Or an old person?”

  “Old like you?” says Dee-Dub.

  I don’t think Dee-Dub is helping our cause.

  “We’ll do whatever we can to make things right,” says Alyssa. “Like Noah says, we’ll pay for the windshield.”

  Mr. Riggieri shakes his head. “I don’t want your money. I’ve got insurance for that. I have a better idea. Meet me at Berra Park tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. The next few Saturdays, you’re going to do some cleaning up.” He turns away and traipses back to his porch. “Oh, and don’t be late,” he adds, “or I’ll track you all down and murder you in your sleep.”

  “Really?” says Dee-Dub.

  Mr. Riggieri sighs. “No, son. Not really. But you still better be there. I think you owe me that much.”

  15

  I Am a Human Trash Can

  Alyssa and Dee-Dub are already waiting for me when I finish wheeling the quarter mile to Berra Park on Saturday morning. The park is an open space the size of a couple football fields. Everyone thinks it’s named for local Hall-of-Famer Yogi Berra, but it’s not. There was a politician on The Hill named Berra too—no relation. I guess Berra was a popular name back then.

  There’s a playground at the edge of the park. I used to come here all the time when I was a little kid. There’s a shelter too, and the neighborhood holds parties on national holidays. I haven’t been to one since the accident.

  Mr. Riggieri shows up a couple minutes after me. He’s carrying a roll of black trash bags in one hand and three pairs of work gloves in the other.

  “Thanks for doing this,” he says, handing out the gloves to us. “It’s nice of you.”

  “Uh . . . sure,” Alyssa replies. “It’s nice of you not to make us pay for the windshield.”

  “Really nice,” I agree.

  “And it was nice of you not to tell my parents,” adds Dee-Dub. “Yesterday was the first time they let me go out since we got to St. Louis.”

  Mr. Riggieri peels off a few trash bags. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly were you three trying to do yesterday?”

  “We were practicing,” I say. “There’s this contest. Alyssa needs to beat the school’s best pitcher in a one-on-one duel.”

  Mr. Riggieri sucks in his cheeks. “No offense,” he tells her, “but from what I saw, it looks like your plan is to bludgeon him to death.”

  “Not really,” says Alyssa. “I already did that once. This time I want to win fair.”

  “And who’s coaching you?”

  “I am,” I say.

  “Oh, dear Lord.” Mr. Riggieri sighs deeply. “You three
get on with cleaning up. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  A moment later, we each have a trash bag, and Mr. Riggieri is leaving the park.

  “Well, that’s strange,” says Alyssa. She whips a black trash bag through the air to open it. “Hold this,” she tells me.

  I take the bag from her. “I feel like a mobile trash can.”

  “Pretty much,” she agrees. “I’m going to fill it with Dee-Dub.”

  “I don’t think Dee-Dub’s going to fit.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Ha-ha.”

  We start by picking up trash beside the bronze statue of Louis G. “Midge” Berra. Then we move to the bouncy red surface of the playground. Dee-Dub has trouble getting under the slide and climbing equipment, so Alyssa takes care of those.

  When we’re finished with the playground, we move on to the field. There’s a baseball diamond in one corner, and several empty energy-drink bottles have been tossed against the protective chain-link fence behind home plate. Alyssa picks one up and throws it toward me from five yards away. Amazingly, it lands in my partially open trash bag.

  “Bet you can’t do that again,” I say.

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?” Bending down, she selects a half-full bottle of yellow energy drink. Then, without any buildup, she lobs it through the air. It flies several yards and lands smack-dab in the middle of my bag.

  She picks up another bottle and throws it. Bam! Straight in the bag. And another. Bam! Straight in the bag. And another, and another.

  Three minutes later, all the trash is in the bag, and she missed only once. I mean, are you kidding me?

  As I watch each object hit its mark, I come to some important conclusions about Alyssa, in the following order:

  (1) She has incredible aim.

  (2) She has ice in her veins.

  (3) Given 1 and 2, she must’ve known what she was doing when she kneecapped Logan Montgomery three days ago.

  Does that mean she deliberately hit Dee-Dub too?

  Before I can ask her about this, Mr. Riggieri walks onto the baseball diamond. He has a bat slung over one shoulder and a duffel bag on the other. He takes awkward, heavy strides that kick up clouds of red clay dust.

  “You kids work quickly,” he says. “Seems like you’re already done for today. Only . . .” He lets the duffel bag slide onto the ground and begins to thwack the bat against his open hand. “I’d like to make sure yesterday’s accident never happens again.”