Mascot

by Antony John

  “Not with him. Against him.”

  “And what about Dee-Dub? How do you think he’s going to feel?”

  “I think he’s going to feel great when he hits Logan’s pitch out of the park.”

  Alyssa grabs her gym bag. “You’re not going to cheat, are you?”

  I pretend to gasp but accidentally swallow my spit and end up coughing instead. “That’s a . . . terrible thing . . . to say,” I wheeze.

  She flicks her head toward the hallway, and I follow her out of the gym.

  “So, when’s this happening?” she asks.

  “Saturday morning.”

  “But that’s when we’re with Mr. Riggieri.”

  “Sure is.”

  She skips in front of my wheelchair and plants her hands on the arms, jolting me to a stop. “Okay. Spit it out. What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can read you like a book, Noah Savino. You’ve got something up your sleeve. More than just the pitch-off. What is it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Whatever.” She blows her bangs out of her eyes. “Saturday morning wasn’t looking good for me anyway.”

  “Okay, fine!” I groan. “I found out that Mr. Riggieri and his kids don’t talk anymore, so I came up with this plan to get them back together.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Trust me, the plan is perfect.”

  Alyssa frowns. It’s not the response I was hoping for, but it’s not exactly surprising either. Asking her to trust me with a secret plan is like asking Flub not to dig up a liver treat I just buried in the backyard.

  She lets go of my wheelchair arms and glances at her watch. “Come on,” she says. “We’re going to be late for class. Don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “Trouble? Guess you haven’t heard: I’m a bad boy now. Got my first detention on Monday.”

  Alyssa stares at me for a moment and then busts out laughing. “Getting detention from Principal Mahoney doesn’t make you a rebel. Just means you must’ve been really, really stupid.”

  I bump my wheelchair gently against her legs, and she laughs even harder.

  “Was that supposed to be rebellious too?” she asks. “I can’t tell.”

  We join the main hallway, which is always busy. It’s hard to glide along gracefully when my wheelchair covers several square feet of ground, but Alyssa stands tall and together we carve a channel through the traffic. When we branch off along a quieter hallway, she looks down at me again.

  “I like it that you stand up to Logan now,” she says.

  “Eh, he’s lucky I went easy on him.”

  Alyssa smiles, but she doesn’t laugh. “Can I ask . . .” She bites her lip. “When I visited you in the hospital after the accident, why didn’t you send me away too?”

  If she’d asked me that question a month ago, I don’t think I would’ve answered it. But things are different now. “Because you knew me better than anyone else. And I felt like I knew you better than anyone else too.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Also, you didn’t make me think about baseball.”

  I figure she’s going to ask me what she did make me think about, but instead she chuckles. “That’s kind of ironic. Seeing as how we’re a team now.”

  “True. Different kind of team, though.”

  “Different kind of Noah.”

  I fidget in my chair. “You mean, my legs . . .”

  She tsks. “There’s a lot more to you than your legs, Noah Savino.”

  The way she says it, her voice a little quieter and breathier than before, makes me feel kind of tingly. “You, uh, saying my legs are ugly?” I croak.

  “I’m saying there’re parts of you that are cuter. Parts I prefer to look at.”

  I check out my arms and chest.

  “Your face, doofus!”

  “Oh.” I turn bright red, which will probably make her change her mind about my face.

  Or maybe not. Because a moment later, she touches my arm, and suddenly it’s the only part of me that matters.

  34

  Reuniting Riggieris

  The Hill is less than one square mile in area. I know this because I got Dad to look it up once. I must’ve been in first grade, and the neighborhood seemed huge to me. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever need to leave.

  When Dad told me how small it is, I was disappointed. So he pointed along our street to Yogi Berra’s house and Joe Garagiola’s house and told me the stories of where they started and how they rose to the top of the baseball world. And how they always made sure to come back home again.

  “When you leave The Hill, you take a piece of it with you,” he said. “So you could say we’re at the heart of America, right here on this street.”

  That made sense to me then. But I’m older now, and I know how small one square mile is. Which is why I’m certain the only way Mr. Riggieri and his son can avoid bumping into each other is to make sure it never happens.

  That stops today.

  After I finish my homework, I sit at the computer and pull up the list of Riggieri family addresses I found a few days ago. Then I write them down on a scrap of paper. I’m so busy I don’t hear Mom enter the room.

  “That’s a lot of Riggieris,” she says.

  Without thinking, I close the browser window. Then I wish I hadn’t. Now she’s going to think I’m up to no good.

  “I’m sorry I told you that stuff about Mr. Riggieri the other day,” she says. “He’s always been polite to me. I wasn’t trying to ruin things between you.”

  I turn my chair around. “I know, Mom.”

  “I just wanted you to see that no one is perfect. Not me. Not Mr. Riggieri . . . And maybe not Mr. Dillon. But Odell has put up with a lot the past year, and he’s never stopped trying to help people. Remind you of someone?”

  I nod.

  “Yeah,” she says. “And it’s been nice for me to have someone to lean on the past couple weeks, but . . . I know it’s been hard for you, seeing him around here. So I’ve asked him to stay away for now.”

  I can’t believe it. Mr. Dillon is out of our lives, just like that. I feel like I should be celebrating or at least thanking Mom for cutting him loose. Instead, I’ve got this weird feeling in my gut.

  “You know what’s most amazing?” says Mom. “When I spoke to Odell, he was totally okay about everything. He made me promise only one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That we’d still use the tickets for Friday’s game. Isn’t that something?”

  Yes, it is. In fact, it’s exactly the kind of thing Dad would’ve done.

  Mom is smiling, but it doesn’t look real. She seems empty . . . and lost. The way I’d probably feel if she told me that Dee-Dub is dangerous and she doesn’t want me hanging out with him anymore.

  Which is ironic, because at this very moment Dee-Dub is working on a risky plan to prove that Mr. Dillon’s not Fredbird. I’ll definitely need to make it clear to him that Operation GMU is off now. He’ll be disappointed, but he’ll get over it.

  “So, are you going to tell me why you were looking up Mr. Riggieri’s family?” Mom asks.

  I try to hide the scrap of paper in my hands, which just draws more attention to it. “It’s . . . well, it’s kind of a secret.”

  “A secret?” She looks worried.

  “Trust me, it’s a good thing.”

  “Trust you?” She snorts. “On the week you got your first detention?”

  “I admit, the timing’s not ideal.”

  She laughs at that. “God, you’re so much like your dad,” she says, tearing up. “He loved you like crazy. . . . I love you like crazy.”

  She steps forward and hugs me tight against her. It feels strange at first—we haven’t hugged like this in ages—but then I relax into her arms. We’ll never be the same as we were before Dad died, but at least we’ve still got each other.

  “I
do trust you, Noah,” she whispers into my hair. “You’re a good kid, and I believe in you. So go on,” she says, letting me go. “Do whatever it is you need to do. And make me proud.”

  I wheel outside and down the ramp. My chair and I cast a long shadow as I head along the street. Botanical is only a few hundred yards away, even closer than Berra Park, and in a few minutes, I’m staring up at a neat little house with blue painted walls and green trim. Marco Riggieri’s yard is as tidy as his dad’s.

  Unfortunately, I am definitely looking up at his house, and I don’t see any way to get to the door.

  There’s a newspaper in a blue plastic bag at the edge of his property. If I throw it at his front door, I might be able to get his attention. So I pick it up, take aim, and imagine that I’m Alyssa Choo, pitcher extraordinaire.

  Unfortunately, thinking of Alyssa reminds me of the pitches that ended up in Dee-Dub’s gut. As I release the bag, I choke out an enormous laugh. Which is not very smart, because it means that (1) I don’t notice the front door opening, and (2) Marco Riggieri’s first impression is of me laughing at him as he takes a newspaper to the head.

  “What the heck!” He narrows his eyes and shoots me a scary look that’s right out of Mr. Riggieri’s playbook. Like father, like son.

  And they are alike. Marco is taller than his dad and even more powerful looking, but otherwise, he looks exactly like I imagine Mr. Riggieri did about forty years ago, even down to the curly hair.

  He thunders down his porch steps and strides toward me. Now would be a good moment for me to run off, but that would require my legs to work. So I just sit there like a statue as he comes to a stop in front of me, muscular arms folded across his broad chest.

  “You hit me,” he says.

  This is not how I planned to start our conversation, but I definitely have his attention. “Uh, yes,” I say. “But I’ve got a good reason.”

  Muttering, he spins on his heel and walks away.

  “I’m here on a mission,” I say.

  “Uh-huh!” he shouts over his shoulder.

  “It’s about your dad.”

  Marco stops walking. Turns slowly and watches me again. He doesn’t look angry like he did before, but somehow his expression is even more menacing. “What’s going on?”

  I should be scared, but I’m not. I can’t even explain why. I just know that if I’m being as honest as Alyssa and as direct as Dee-Dub, I must be doing the right thing. (Well, apart from whacking Marco on the noggin with a newspaper. That was admittedly a mistake.)

  “Your dad . . . Mr. Riggieri . . . ,” I begin. “He’s been coaching me and my friends in baseball. Ten o’clock, every Saturday morning.”

  Marco doesn’t say anything. He still looks annoyed. Actually, he looks like he could probably disconnect my arms, lay me out with a Dee-Dub hammer blow, and not break a sweat.

  “Yeah, so . . . ,” I continue, a little less confidently, “he’s been coaching us, right? And I got to talking with him about how you two don’t talk anymore, and I thought . . . well, I thought maybe you could start talking again.”

  Okay, so I clearly should’ve spent a little less time doing research on the Riggieri family and a little more time planning what I was actually going to say.

  “Did my father send you?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Did he tell you all the things he said to me?”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “No,” repeats Marco, like this closes the case. “Look, I don’t know what your dad is like, but mine was a tyrant. There’s a reason I stay away from him.”

  “My dad is dead,” I say.

  Marco stares at me. I didn’t plan to tell him about Dad—it just popped out—but isn’t this really the difference between us? Not that my dad was amazing and his was awful. But that he and Mr. Riggieri still have a chance at a future together.

  He places his hands on his hips. “Are you the kid that lives across the street from him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Noah, right? Noah Savino?”

  “The one and only,” I say, trying hopelessly to smile.

  Marco takes a seat on a porch step and rests his elbows on his knees. “I remember when you were a baby. Most of the time, I saw you with your mom, and she’d be singing or telling you the names of everything. But sometimes your dad was pushing the stroller. You’d be all decked out in Cardinals gear and mouthing on an old leather catcher’s mitt. That glove sure seemed to keep you happy.”

  “I’ve still got it,” I tell him.

  “You don’t still chew on it, though, right?”

  “Not as much as I used to.”

  He laughs, and suddenly I can see the warmer, kinder side of Mr. Riggieri Senior shining through.

  Behind him, the front door opens and another man walks out. The new guy isn’t as big and intimidating as Marco. “So, this is where you got to,” he says.

  Without looking around, Marco raises a hand. “Phil, this is my old neighbor, Noah Savino. Noah, this is Phil.”

  “Good to meet you, Noah,” says Phil.

  “You too,” I say.

  “Noah here’s been getting baseball coaching from my father,” Marco explains.

  Phil sucks in air through his teeth. “Yikes. Good luck with that.”

  “I think he wants me to come watch on Saturday,” continues Marco. “Isn’t that right, Noah? So I can see what a stand-up guy my father has become.”

  I don’t like his tone. It’s like he’s making a joke that I can’t understand.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Phil takes a seat on the porch steps too but a couple up from Marco. “I think we should go along.”

  Marco stiffens. “Don’t you remember what he said to us? To you?”

  “Of course I do,” says Phil. “Every word. But I also remember him standing right where Noah is now and saying he was sorry.”

  When Marco doesn’t respond, Phil places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes once. That’s when it hits me. I don’t think Marco and his father fell out over baseball. I think they fell out because of Phil.

  Marco, hunched over, is quiet now. I want to tell him more about how his father has changed, but I think he already knows. The question is whether that’s enough to undo the past.

  “Saturday,” I remind him. “Ten o’clock. Berra Park.”

  Then, turning my wheelchair, I begin the short journey home.

  35

  Operation GMU

  On Friday evening, we pick up Dee-Dub on our way to the Cardinals game. While Mom chats with his parents, he climbs into the front passenger seat. I’m stuck in the back with Makayla, so it’s difficult to tell him that Operation GMU is officially over. If he’d been at school today I would’ve told him, but he was still on suspension for his last bad idea.

  “You ready, Noah?” Dee-Dub calls back from the front seat.

  “Yes,” I say. “Should be a great game.”

  “I’m not talking about the game.” He tries to turn around in his seat, but he’s kind of wedged in. “I’m talking about Operation GMU.”

  “What’s Operation GMU?” Makayla asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, getting flustered. “It’s just a thing between Dee-Dub and me.”

  “That’s right,” agrees Dee-Dub. “Just you and me and Alyssa.”

  My stomach plummets like I’m free-falling on a roller coaster. “What’s Alyssa got to do with it?”

  His shoulders bob up and down. “She came to my house this afternoon. She said you told her you were working on a secret plan, but she wasn’t clear on the details. So I filled her in.”

  “You what? That was a different plan!”

  “Are you saying you’ve got a backup plan?” Dee-Dub sounds confused. “You think Operation MUD won’t work?”

  “A moment ago, you called it Operation GMU,” says Makayla, flicking her hair beads like she means business.

  “Same difference,” explains Dee-Dub. “Although I still think MUD wo
rks better. It stands for—”

  “Mud!” I shout. “It stands for mud! Anyway, my other plan isn’t a backup for anything. It’s called Operation Reunite Riggieri.”

  “Like our neighbor Riggieri?” says Makayla.

  Oh, shoot. I forgot that she knows him too. “Uh . . .”

  “You’re not planning to unmask Mr. Riggieri as well, are you?” exclaims Dee-Dub.

  “Who else are you unmasking?” cries Makayla. “Is that the GMU-MUD thing you keep talking about?”

  “No!” I say.

  “Yes!” says Dee-Dub.

  Makayla is giving me the evil eye. As if that’s not bad enough, Alyssa knows our secret too. Together, they could make it very difficult for me to cover everything up.

  “Your dad said tonight’s game is sold out, right?” I ask Makayla.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Why?”

  “No reason.” I relax into my seat.

  One adversary is better than two.

  We arrive early and park the car. Ten minutes later, I’m wheeling toward Busch Stadium. We’re only twenty yards away from the third base entrance when Dee-Dub stops.

  “Is that Alyssa?” he asks.

  I whip my head around. It’s Alyssa all right. She’s standing near the ticket booths about fifty yards away, and I can guess why she’s here.

  I can’t let her see us. If she comes over and starts talking about Operation GMU in front of Mom, we’ll be in big trouble. It won’t even matter that I’m trying to call the whole thing off.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  I’m almost at the gate when Alyssa turns around. At first, she furrows her brows like she vaguely remembers seeing me before. Then she narrows her eyes. I feel like we’re in a Wild West standoff, waiting to see who blinks first.

  Turns out, it’s me. The moment I put my hands on the wheels, she starts sprinting toward us. Lucky for me, Mom’s already handing our tickets to the attendant.

  “I need to pee!” I shout.

  I’ve said the magic words. The attendant hustles us through, and we barrel along the concourse. Twenty seconds later, we’re safe, and I’m sweating.

  “Restroom’s over there,” says Mom, breathing heavily.