by Antony John
“I am not your son!” I shout. “And you’re not my dad.”
He doesn’t reply, so I hit him. It’s not a nice thing to do, and because I’m dangling several feet above the ground, it’s not very smart either. But once I start, I can’t stop. I just keep pounding my fists against his meaty back.
He inhales sharply with every punch, but he never stops walking. “It’s okay,” he keeps saying. “It’s okay.”
And I keep yelling back, “I. Am. Not. Your. Son.” I never actually say the words “and I never will be,” but I think he gets the message because when we arrive home a few minutes later, he lays me gently on the sofa and turns away.
“What happened, Odell?” Mom asks, a stricken expression on her face.
But Mr. Dillon doesn’t answer. Just passes her without a word and leaves the room. In this moment, I’m praying that he never comes back. And it’s possible my prayers will be answered, because from the look on his face, I’m not the only one who’s been crying.
26
The Riddle of Mr. Riggieri
After checking that my arm is just banged up, not actually broken, Mom helps me get to my bedroom. For the rest of the day, I lie on my bed and stare at the blue walls and the tacked-up posters of Cardinals players.
Mr. Dillon comes over in the afternoon. He and Mom try to talk quietly, but I hear his deep voice through the wall. The name Riggieri comes up a few times, but I can’t make out much else. I can imagine what they’re both saying, though: Noah is so much work. . . . Noah never appreciates help. . . . Noah Noah Noah blah blah blah . . .
They’re right too. There, I admitted it. I am a lot of work, and I don’t appreciate Mr. Dillon’s help, and I hate feeling guilty when I never asked for help in the first place. If Mom wants me to be happy again, she could start by making things the way they used to be. Sure, I should’ve worked harder at physical therapy, but I’m trying to fix that now. Having Mr. Dillon around isn’t helping.
Dee-Dub’s plans for Operation GMU don’t seem so crazy anymore.
I close my eyes and imagine Dad bursting into the room and announcing that he’s kicked Mr. Dillon halfway down the street. Okay, fine, Mr. Dillon’s much bigger than Dad, but in my mind, that doesn’t matter. Dad can do anything. He can whistle loud enough to overpower a vacuum cleaner. He can fry three eggs at once and make all the yolks different textures, even if he doesn’t mean to. He can talk, talk, talk . . . like there’s never too much to say. Like there’s never enough time to say everything.
The daydream fizzles out. Turns out, that last part was true: there wasn’t enough time for us after all.
I wipe my sleeve across my bleary eyes and sniffling nose and reach for the box of baseball cards on my nightstand. They’re Dad’s rookie cards really, not mine, but it’s not like he has any use for them anymore. I used to look at them every day when I was in the hospital. I tried to remember all the stories Dad told me about the players I never got to see, like Ozzie Smith and Mark McGwire. Sometimes I’d forget a detail, and I’d lie in bed and wonder if it meant that I’d forget about Dad one day too.
There’s a gap of about six years in his card collection. That’s when Dad stopped following baseball because he was focused on me. Then there are the newer cards—Michael Wacha and Carlos Martinez, Matt Carpenter and Kolten Wong—because we’d started to go to Cardinals games together.
We used to sit in the cheap seats and share a hot dog and he’d point to each player and tell me all about him. How Matt Carpenter started as a thirteenth-round draft pick and worked his way through the minor leagues to crack the starting lineup. The way Dad saw it, anyone could make it in baseball with enough hard work and love for the game. “Time and effort, Noah,” he used to say. “It’s all just time and effort.”
I believed him too because I could see it playing out on the field right in front of me. I saw it in every diving catch, and double play, and force-out. Nothing was given, and everything was earned. Who couldn’t respect that?
The accident changed all that. Working hard in the neurorehab center revealed as much about what I couldn’t do as what I could, and who wants to know what they can’t do? So I put in the time but not the effort. Angelica kept pushing, and I kept pushing back. Until this week, anyway. This week, I finally tried.
And look where it got me: facedown in the dirt at my neighborhood park.
Dad was wrong. Time and effort don’t make everything possible, and not everyone can make it to the major leagues. Some people never get to pick up a baseball, and others can’t even stand without help. Some of us get carried through the neighborhood like a rolled-up rug.
How will time and effort fix that?
The next morning, Mom bangs on the door at eight o’clock. I don’t answer, but she comes in anyway. She’s carrying a plate loaded with pancakes, which is completely impossible to resist, partly because pancakes are my favorite breakfast food but mostly because I’m starving.
I push myself up in bed and tuck in as Mom flashes an anxious smile.
“Thank you,” I mumble. “I’ll get up soon.”
It’s my cue for her to leave, but instead, she perches at the end of my bed and rests her hand on my leg hidden beneath the comforter. “You want to talk about what happened yesterday?” she asks.
I try to put on my best thoughtful expression, but I’m chewing so hard, I probably look like a constipated chipmunk. “Not really,” I say around a mouthful of pancake.
She moves her hand. It’s strange, but the only time we touch anymore is when she’s helping me in and out of the car. I wonder if that will ever change.
Mom stands and begins pacing back and forth across the room. It’s like watching a zoo animal stuck in a tiny pen. It reminds me of the photo taped above my desk: Dad and me at the Saint Louis Zoo a couple years ago. It took Mom two minutes to snap that picture because Dad was busy dealing with an issue at work. By the time he was done, the elephant that had been standing right behind us was out of the picture. Mom asked Dad to turn the phone off, but he said he couldn’t. He did put it away, though.
Mom follows my eyes. “Remember what happened just after that photo?”
She’s talking about how the elephant returned with a trunk full of water and sprayed the crowd. Dad got the brunt of it, and we all laughed like crazy.
But she didn’t see what happened next. How Dad pulled out his phone to check it was still working. I’ll never forget his look of relief when he found out it was okay. I think that might have been the highlight of the trip for him.
“What happened yesterday, Noah?” Mom asks.
I take another bite. “I fell over.”
“Hmm. That must’ve been scary. Bet it hurt too.”
Hurt. I never realized how vague that word is, and how many different kinds of pain there are. A hangnail hurts but not the same as what I’m feeling now.
I wait for her to ask me why I went crazy and started hitting Mr. Dillon. Instead, she says, “Mr. Dillon fixed your wheel for you.”
Oh, great. So now I’m supposed to be grateful that he’s as handy as Dad?
I imagine a barrier falling between us, like the metal screen that Dad lowered outside the hardware store at the end of each day. I take another bite so I won’t have to say anything. Speaking will only make things worse.
“Look, I know things are hard for you, honey,” Mom says, wringing her hands. “But Mr. Dillon just wants to help. He’s trying, you know.”
“Yes,” I reply. “Very trying.”
She grits her teeth so that her jaw muscles bulge. She seems to be forgetting the whole avoidance part of conflict avoidance. “What has he done that’s so bad, huh? Just tell me that.”
“You spend more time with him than you do with me.”
“That’s not true! And since when do you care? All you ever do is play with the computer. When was the last time you actually talked to me?”
“So, that’s what this is about? You want someone to talk to?”
“Yes! You’re not the only one who’s lonely, Noah. You’re not the only one who needs a shoulder to cry on.”
Is that supposed to make me feel better? Now all I can think about is Mom crying and Mr. Dillon comforting her.
“He’s a liar, Mom!”
“Not this again.” She hangs her head. “What do you want me to say, Noah? ’Cause I’m at the end of my rope here. A part of me wants to tell you to stop whining and grow up. I’d do it too, but then I think about Mr. Riggieri and . . .” She waves her hands vaguely through the air.
“What about Mr. Riggieri? I like him.”
“Of course you do,” she says bitterly. “Because he’s nice to you, just like Mr. Dillon is trying to be nice to you. The difference is, Mr. Dillon isn’t being nice to other people’s kids just to make up for screwing up so badly with his own!”
She stops moving and places her hand over her mouth like she can’t believe she just said that.
Come to think of it, neither can I. “I never knew that,” I say. “I didn’t even know he has kids.”
Mom looks like she wants to rewind the conversation. Go back to the part where we were discussing Mr. Dillon’s kindness and my ungratefulness. But we’ve moved on to Mr. Riggieri now, and I need answers.
“How come I never knew that?” I ask.
Mom runs a finger across my chest of drawers. “He has two daughters and a son. They’re all grown up now.” She stares at the dust coating her fingertip. “His son, Marco, was a very good baseball player in high school. The two of them used to practice in Berra Park. I’d see them when I took you to the playground as a baby.” She smiles like it’s a happy memory, but the smile doesn’t last. “Mr. Riggieri wasn’t a nice man back then, Noah. He spent most of his time chewing Marco out. His daughters left home the first chance they got. Marco followed them out the day he graduated high school.”
I’ve never seen anyone visiting Mr. Riggieri’s house, but I figured it was because he didn’t have any family. I’ve only hung out with him a couple times, but I can’t believe he was ever as mean as Mom says.
“His kids must’ve gone a long way away,” I tell her, “seeing as how they never visit.”
She opens my blinds, and I squint in the bright sunshine. “Actually,” she says, staring across the street at Mr. Riggieri’s house, “they live right here on The Hill. I still see them around. They always wave and say hi to me. But they never come onto our block.”
She turns back to me and sees the plate of half-eaten pancakes. “Eat up, won’t you?”
I’ve lost my appetite. But it’s a peace offering, so I take a bite anyway. Chew and chew, even though the pancake tastes dry now.
“I know you miss your dad, honey,” Mom says, her eyes moist, “but that doesn’t make Mr. Dillon a bad man. Compared to Mr. Riggieri, he’s a saint. If only you’d give him the same chance you give Mr. Riggieri, I think you’d see it too.”
A part of me still wants to convince her that Mr. Dillon really is a liar. But maybe she’s got a point. Maybe that’s not the real problem here. I mean, there are probably millions of nice guys in the world, and Mom and I don’t need any of them in our lives either.
Even the nicest guys sometimes leave.
I’ve got a photo above my desk to prove it.
27
Monster Truck Speaks
On Monday morning, Dee-Dub takes the seat next to me in homeroom. I can tell he wants to say something, but Ms. Guthrie is about to take attendance. One by one we mumble that we’re present.
When the bell goes, half-asleep students stagger out of the room. Ms. Guthrie leaves too. Not Dee-Dub, though. First period will be starting soon, but he stays behind, my own private shadow. So does Alyssa. It feels a little like being double-teamed in basketball.
When we’re alone, Dee-Dub says, “I need to apologize.”
“For what?” I ask.
“On Saturday, when you fell over . . . I panicked. I wasn’t sure if it was safe to move you.”
I don’t want to talk about it, but Dee-Dub won’t let it drop until I forgive him. So I say, “It wasn’t your fault.”
“No,” he agrees, “but I didn’t respond appropriately. My parents suggested that I read a book on paraplegia—”
“It’s not your fault! How many times do I have to say it?”
Dee-Dub glances at Alyssa, who returns a thin-lipped smile. “It would really help me if we could talk, Noah,” he says.
“We are talking,” I point out.
“No. Real talking. Where we tell each other the truth.”
“When did I lie?”
He tugs at the collar of his polo shirt like it’s suddenly gotten hot. “You never told me you were paralyzed in the same accident that killed your dad. Or that it was his fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He was looking at his cell phone, wasn’t he? And that’s why you’re in a wheelchair now.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stare at Alyssa, but she looks away. She knew that Dee-Dub was going to ask me about this. She was probably the one who set him up to do it.
I try to leave, but Dee-Dub is blocking my way.
“It’s like I told you on Friday,” he says. “It’s really hard for me when people don’t tell the truth.”
“We’re going to be late for math!”
He doesn’t move. “Are you crying?”
“No!”
“There are tears running down your face.”
I run my sleeve across my cheeks.
Alyssa slides off her desk and places a hand on Dee-Dub’s shoulder. “Hey,” she says. “Can you let Noah and me talk for a moment?”
He nods, but he still doesn’t budge.
“Alone,” says Alyssa.
“Oh.” Dee-Dub shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Okay.”
Alyssa watches him go. “He’s just trying to understand, Noah.”
“Why did you tell him about the accident?” I hiss.
“I didn’t tell him anything! In case you haven’t noticed, Dee-Dub’s pretty smart. Are you really surprised that he knows how to stick your name in a search engine?” She bites her lip. “Your crash was all over the news. Honestly, I’m kind of amazed it took him this long to work out the details.”
I want to be angry with her, and Dee-Dub too, but I know she’s telling the truth. I’m the liar, keeping secrets and pretending I’m not crying when I can feel the tears burning my cheeks. I hate that Alyssa is seeing me this way, just like she did on Saturday. I’ve had months to get a grip on what happened to Dad and me. Am I still going to be crying in a year? Two years? Why hasn’t it gotten easier? Why can’t anyone tell me when it’ll stop?
“I just liked having one person who didn’t know everything about the accident,” I tell her. “Someone who’s only seen me like this, instead of comparing me to the person I used to be.” I stare at my legs. “You probably think I’m stupid.”
“No.” She takes a seat beside me. “And I don’t think Dee-Dub does either. Actually, I think he might feel the same way. We talked for quite a while on Saturday, and things weren’t always good for him in Albuquerque. Anyway,” she says with a little shake of her head, “we wouldn’t hang out with you every Saturday if we thought you were stupid.”
“You don’t have much choice. Mr. Riggieri said if you didn’t show, he’d track you down and murder you in your sleep.” Saying the words aloud reminds me of what Mom told me about Mr. Riggieri and his estranged kids. Did he used to joke with them too, or did his threats feel more real back then?
Alyssa touches my arm gently, bringing me back to the present. “That would definitely be a bad way to go,” she says. “But Mr. Riggieri isn’t the one telling me to hang out with you every lunchtime as well. And he wasn’t the reason we hung out all the time in elementary school either.”
I look at her hand. My skin tingles. Alyssa’s the one good thing that came from the accident, I guess, because I probably
wouldn’t have ditched Logan and Co. otherwise.
Unfortunately, Logan chooses this moment to return. He lumbers into the room, sees Alyssa and me, and stops abruptly. “Whoa. Are you crying, Savino?” He curls his upper lip. “So what if Choo doesn’t want to date you? You’re too good for her anyway.”
Alyssa pulls her hand away. I feel the empty space where she was touching me.
Logan heads back to the desk where he sits during homeroom. Bending over, he picks up his cell phone. “Lucky me,” he says. “Thought I’d lost it.”
Just seeing the phone makes me tense. When he holds it up and pretends to take a picture of Alyssa and me, I raise my arms to cover my face.
“Geez, Logan,” Alyssa huffs as Logan closes in on us. “Just for once, can you stop being such a jerk?”
“Hey, you’re the one who broke his heart, not me.” He raises his phone again, and this time I’m pretty sure he takes a real photo of us. “I’ll send you a copy if you like. You can use it in the yearbook.”
“Shut up!” Alyssa yells.
Dee-Dub reappears in the doorway.
Logan sees him and laughs. “I wondered how long it’d be before you came in. I saw you waiting for your boyfriend outside the door.”
“Noah’s not my boyfriend,” says Dee-Dub.
“Whatever.” Logan flicks his head. “Why don’t you get in the photo with them? Then I could get a picture of Noah with his ex-girlfriend and his boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” mutters Dee-Dub. He has no idea that he’s making things worse. Arguing with Logan is like using gasoline to put out a fire.
“Go on,” says Logan. “It’d be a photo for the ages: short, tall, and wide. Hey, you could be a comedy group.”
Alyssa and I don’t respond, so Logan approaches Dee-Dub. He holds his phone up, snapping away. “Oh, yeah.” He chuckles. “Now we’re really working in three dimensions.”
Dee-Dub steps back.
“What, no weird comment?” continues Logan. “Isn’t this where you normally spew some crazy stuff that makes no sense to anyone?”