by Joan Bauer
Sully and Eli got up gratefully.
Tree said to Sophie, “I’ll think about it . . . the motto thing. . . .”
“Dad, do you have a motto?” Tree had been thinking about this most of the afternoon.
“Well . . .” Dad looked at the coffee mug he was holding from his store: Kramer’s Sports Mart: We Will Not Be Undersold. “I’ve got a slogan, does that count?”
“Not really.”
Curtis and Larry weren’t home to ask.
Grandpa said, “I always liked what the POWs held to. Return with honor.”
“That’s good, Grandpa.”
Tree went into his room, sat at his desk, took out paper and a pen. Wrote the mottoes he knew.
Speak softly and carry a big stick.
The buck stops here.
You can’t teach an old dog new tricks—Tree knew that was a lie; he wasn’t sure if it was a motto.
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
That was a decent thought, but it didn’t sound cool like Speak your mind and ride a fast horse.
Tree tried to edit the words, make them better.
Finally he came up with Treat people the way you want to be treated.
He wondered if that was good enough to be a motto.
He looked at the Tyrannosaurus rex model on his desk. He’d put it together with Grandpa when kids were teasing him about his size in fifth grade. Tree related to dinosaurs, but wasn’t too thrilled about the extinction part.
“They died off because they were too big,” Jeremy Liggins would taunt him. “They died because they were slow and stupid and they needed too much food.”
Tree remembered gluing all the teeth into place, how Grandpa sanded the pieces of the tail when Tree told him what Jeremy had said.
“So, how do you want to be treated?” Grandpa asked.
“Just like I’m regular. Like I’m not so big.”
“The problem is, you’re not a regular size. How do we work around that?”
Tree didn’t know. He just wanted to be regular.
“How about wanting them to treat you with respect, even though your size makes you stand out?”
Tree nodded.
“How are we going to get them to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think the only way it can happen is if you try to treat them with respect first.” Grandpa fastened the last tail part on with glue, held it down with his thumb.
That wasn’t the easy answer Tree was looking for.
“You’ve got to just think of yourself as a farmer laying down seeds. There might be some storms and weeds that choke what you’re trying to grow. But you’ll get a crop eventually. I guarantee it.”
Tree looked at his motto sheet, underlined Treat people the way you want to be treated.
He wondered if dinosaurs had mottoes.
Probably Eat your enemies before they eat you.
“So, I guess people say a lot of stupid things to you about your height.”
Sophie said this to Tree in the hall when he was slurping deep from the drinking fountain. He was so surprised, he half choked. She threw down her flute case and punched him on the back.
“Breathe, or I call 911.”
Tree waved her off, coughing.
“You know why people do that?”
Tree coughed. “Do what?”
“Say stupid things.”
“I’m not sure.”
“My aunt Peach says they say them because they don’t know better, and if they do, it makes them feel like they’ve got one up on you.”
Tree hadn’t thought of it that way.
“So, what do they say?” Sophie was looking up at him.
“They say, ‘How’s the weather up there?’”
“That’s dumb. What do you say?”
“Usually nothing.”
“Spit on them. Say, ‘It’s raining.’”
Tree laughed. “They ask me if I take a lot of vitamins.”
Sophie was shaking her head.
“They ask if my parents are tall, what size my shoes are.”
She looked at his substantial feet. “What size are they?”
“Sixteen double E.”
“So, you’ve got a presence. You show up, people notice.”
Tree smiled. “I guess so.” He liked thinking about it that way.
“There are worse things.” She picked up her case. “I’ve been playing the flute since I was eight. I’m close to being a musical genius except for when I’ve been blowing for an hour and my mouth gets full of spit.”
That’s when Laurie Fuller and Char Wellman, two popular eighth-grade girls, walked up to Sophie, snickering.
“So, did you?” Char asked Sophie, and she and Laurie giggled.
“Did I what?” Sophie held her case tight.
“Fall off a garbage truck?” Laurie asked, and they both exploded in laughter. “Is that how you got here?”
Sophie looked right at them. Tree felt his whole body go stiff.
“I got here in a Chevy,” she said quietly.
The girls ran off, triumphant. The dirty deed done.
Tree stood there, shocked.
“I gotta go,” Sophie whispered.
And she went.
CHAPTER NINE
Tree stood in the same place in the hall by the drinking fountain for so long, it seemed like he’d grown roots. He was thinking of all the things he could have said to defend Sophie, but none of them were any good.
He remembered how Jeremy Liggins once said that Tree was “a giant freak that shouldn’t have been born.” Tree knew this wasn’t so. He knew his parents and grandpa loved him. But some words and the way people say them are like grenades exploding on a battlefield.
“Never try to outrun a grenade,” said Grandpa. “Just leap away from it, hit the ground, and pray you’re far enough away.”
VA Rehab, 0800 hours (8:00 A.M., military time).
Grandpa came here three times a week to work with Mona.
“I’m just a little concerned, Leo, with you playing Santa Claus this year.”
The Trash King, one of Grandpa’s best friends, said it. He ran a trash pickup business. They’d served together in Vietnam. He’d driven Leo and Tree here in his truck.
Grandpa cranked hard on the arm machine. He’d been Santa Claus every year at the children’s hospital when the Vietnam Vets Association did their annual show.
“Kids are going to want to crawl on your lap, Leo. You handled it last year, but I knew you were hurting.”
“Santa Claus knows no pain.” Grandpa said it tough; a stab of pain hit his leg.
King studied his old, stubborn friend. “You could branch out. Be an elf.”
“I don’t want to be an elf.”
“You could be a reindeer.”
“Mona,” said Grandpa, “I’ve kicked butt on this machine. Give me something harder.”
She laughed. “Take a break, Leo.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re making me tired.”
Tree laughed, helped Grandpa get off the machine. He didn’t need as much help as last week.
Of all his grandpa’s Vietnam buddies, Tree liked the Trash King best. He worked for him sometimes, moving old, busted furniture like couches, lamps, and tables. King would sell them to “people who had vision.”
“You give me a person with vision,” he’d say, “they can take the most broken-down piece of junk and turn it into something beautiful. They don’t let a few scratches worry them. They see to the heart of the piece.”
Tree pushed the wheelchair in place. Grandpa plopped down, chuckled. “Santa Claus in a wheelchair could start a new trend.”
“You could get hurt, Leo.”
“Mona,” Grandpa shouted, “tell this man what disabled people can do.”
Mona Arnold folded her arms, shouted back, “Just about anything.”
Luger, who’d gotten decent at holding a cup, grabbed it
with his mechanical hand and raised it high.
King knew when he was outnumbered. “All right, Leo. You’re on deck. But the elves are watching. If you can’t handle it, they’re moving in like Green Berets.”
“Men . . .”
Coach Glummer walked slowly before the Pit Bulls. “I’ve been given a revelation that will have a lasting effect on this team.”
The Pit Bulls looked concerned.
“Basketball is like a dance, men. We need to find the rhythm of the game, flow more as a team. Move from side to side like you’re dancing.”
Tree had never danced. Most of the Pit Bulls hadn’t.
“Like you’re dancing with a girl, you know. Going across the dance floor.”
Tree didn’t know. He’d never danced with a girl.
He tried to picture the basketball like a girl, but no girl he knew would appreciate being dribbled.
“Try some flowing movements.” Coach Glummer began to sway back and forth.
Tree moved an inch.
“Throw your body into it.”
Tree didn’t want to do that with his body.
“Ballroom dancing,” Coach Glummer announced. “It’ll teach you balance, how to move across the floor with a partner, how to trust your body, and ultimately”—he looked at the basketball net—“how to win on this home court and beyond.”
The Pit Bulls turned to stone.
“My cousin Sheila is starting a class at the Y. Tuesday nights from seven to nine. Maybe you got the flier.”
All the Pit Bulls had gotten the flier. They had thrown them into the garbage in a great show of team unity.
“I want you to sign up. That’s an order. You’ll thank me for this in the weeks and years to come.”
He blew his whistle. They were dismissed. But they all stood there desperately trying to think of why Tuesday nights couldn’t work.
“I take allergy shots on Tuesday and, you know, Coach, I can puff up,” said Petey Lawler.
“Tuesday nights I’ve got to watch my little sister,” Ryan Trout pleaded.
Colin Renquist had the best line. “Dancing makes me puke.”
The Fighting Pit Bulls exploded in laughter.
Coach Glummer was unmoved. “Bring a bucket, Renquist.”
Tree’s father had been carrying a bucket since he got home from work, sure he was coming down with the stomach flu. Sure he was going to start heaving any moment.
Tree was worried about him. “Is there anything I can do to make Christmas easier, Dad?”
He put the bucket down, looked monumentally sad. “We’re just going to get through it.”
Tree had hoped for more than that.
Dad touched Tree’s shoulder. “I’ll be okay, buddy. I’ve just got to work things out.”
“I think Mom made a big mistake when she left.” Tree had never said that out loud before.
Dad leaned against the wall. “It wasn’t just her, Tree. I could have done a lot of things better. I could have tried to understand her more. I wasn’t too good at that.”
“Do you think you guys could . . . maybe . . . decide this isn’t a good idea?”
Dad half smiled. “Your mom thinks the divorce is a good idea.”
Tree looked down.
“It takes time,” Dad said, “to get used to all this.”
How much time, Tree wondered.
It was midnight. The sounds of handball echoed in the basement.
Thump.
Thwack.
Tree hadn’t heard those sounds in a long time. His dad had been a handball champion back when he lived in New Jersey.
But he was too busy to play these days; too tired.
Tree headed to the basement to watch.
Thump.
Dad hurled the little handball against the basement wall; stepped back to cup it in his right hand as it bounced toward him. The best thing about this house was the high basement ceiling.
Thwack.
The wall had ball marks on it. The marks had always bothered Tree’s mother, who wanted to paint the wall yellow.
Handball walls are gray.
Any guy knows that.
Thump. Thwack.
There’s a rhythm to handball.
Tree sat at the top of the basement stairs and watched. It seemed to Tree that his dad was always happier when he was moving. Tree was happiest when he was taking things apart.
It’s funny how life gets so complicated, you don’t get to do the thing that makes you happy. You have to concentrate on the things that are expected.
His dad should have been a coach.
Run a sports camp for kids.
Thump.
His dad had helped Curtis and Larry all through school athletics. He’d tried to help Tree, too, especially in football.
“Size-wise, Big Man, you’ve got the potential to be one mean defensive lineman.”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Just crouch down and hold your arms out. There’s no finesse required.”
If Tree could have changed one thing about himself, it would have been that he was better at sports and shared that with his father.
He looked at the glass case on the other side of the basement. Curtis’s and Larry’s sports awards were there: most valuable player certificates, athlete of the year trophies, Larry’s medal for most home runs in a season.
Tree had never once won an award.
The little handball spun off the wall. Dad made a low catch. Gently threw the ball on the wall with English. Looked up, saw Tree watching him. Did his famous triple ball bounce off two walls and caught it behind his back.
That move used to drive Tree’s mother bonkers. She’d run to the basement door and shout, “Is everyone all right?”
Funny the things you miss when you don’t have them around anymore.
Dad threw the ball easy to Tree, who missed the catch.
It bounced off the stairs and rolled beneath the washing machine, where handballs go to die.
“Sorry, Dad.”
Now the thunder of older brothers racing down the basement stairs. Older brothers who were good at handball. First-string.
“Come on,” Dad said to Tree.
“I’ll just watch.” He didn’t want to look stupid.
Dad served. Larry caught it low, spun it on the wall. Curtis caught it between his legs, returned the bounce strong.
Thump.
Pow.
Thwack.
Larry went all out for every ball; grunted, groaned.
Curtis had more confidence, but Larry played harder.
Larry could lie on a couch for hours looking half dead, but put a ball in his hand and he’d catch fire.
They were having so much fun.
They wouldn’t, probably, if Tree joined in. He always felt he slowed things down.
He felt like a woolly mammoth in a world of tigers and antelopes.
A giant sloth moving slowly up a tree when all the squirrels and monkeys had gotten there first.
He sat at the top of the stairs like he’d done most of his life.
He acted like he didn’t mind.
But he did.
CHAPTER TEN
“Choose how you’d die,” Sully said. “Shark attack, alien abduction, or”—he shuddered—“ballroom dancing.”
It was the first night of ballroom dance class. Sully, Eli, and Tree were standing behind the big bush near the entrance to the Y. From the front, Sully and Eli couldn’t be seen; Tree poked out like a giraffe in a necktie.
“Not dancing,” said Eli, who’d offered his parents half of his $123 life savings if he didn’t have to take this class.
“Maybe an alien,” Tree said.
Sully loosened his tie; his mother had yanked it tight like a noose. “I’d take the shark. But I’d need to have a heart attack first.”
Cars were pulling up to the entrance. Girls in dresses got out excitedly. Boys in badly fitting suits slumped in misery toward the front door.
“We could all just not go,” Eli suggested. “Who’d know?”
“Okay,” said a familiar, tough voice from behind. “You guys going in or what? ’Cause the sooner we get started, the sooner it’s going to be over. Those were Aunt Peach’s parting words to me.”
Tree turned around, and there was Sophie looking very pretty in a purple dress, her hair done up in a barrette, and her black eyes flashing total attitude, which is exactly what you’d want in a dance partner.
Coach Glummer’s cousin Sheila looked at the eighty-seven seventh- and eighth-graders assembled in the gym of the YMCA. Her teacher’s heart fluttered with care for her students. She wanted to become a trusted person in their lives, a teacher not just of the fox trot, the waltz, and the tango, but a role model of enduring memory.
But Sheila knew that eighty-seven seventh- and eighth-graders could turn on her at any moment. So she stood on center court and shouted, “I’m the law in this room. That means what I say goes. If you disobey, you’re out, and I keep your parents’ money. Do we understand each other?”
Eighty-seven heads nodded grimly.
“Ballroom dancing can be one of the most fun things you’ll ever do. For that to happen, you have to listen like your life depended on it. Are you still with me?”
They were.
“We begin dancing like we begin most new things—by taking a risk. I’m going to demonstrate a simple step that will get you through most wedding receptions. This is as easy as life gets. Watch. Right foot forward, left foot matches, right moves back and left detaches. You try.”
The Fighting Pit Bulls looked at one another glumly. Tree glanced over at Sophie, who was looking at the ceiling.
“Right foot forward, left foot matches. Right moves back and left detaches.”
No one got it right.
They moved into dance circles. Sheila’s Romanian dance partner, Lazar, who swayed constantly even when there wasn’t music playing, worked with the boys.
“Okay now, young mens.” Lazar tossed his head, swaying. “I’m gonna teach you how, you know, to go with it.”
Lazar did a few slow steps. “You see from that? You see to just move and go with it? Okay, mens, let’s slide.”