I can’t fall asleep because I keep worrying about basketball, so I’m awake when Mom and Bubbie come home from the movies.
Mom comes into my room and sits on the edge of my bed. She runs her fingers through my hair. Then she sighs. “Norb?”
“Mhmm?” I sit up. “How was the movie?”
“It was good, honey. Listen, Norb, we haven’t really talked about this, but I think we should. I’m wondering how you’re feeling about…your dad.”
I shrug. Why does Mom want to talk about Dad now? It’s late and I have so many other things on my mind keeping me up. “I’m all right. I mean, I’m not happy for him, but you know.” He’ll be fine. It’ll just take some time like before and then he’ll be okay again.
“I’m a little worried, Norb,” Mom says, “because, well…” She twists a lock of her hair. “I haven’t seen you cry. And that concerns me a little. I mean, you’ve seen me crying buckets. Right?”
Mom has cried buckets—enough for the both of us. She cried before we came here, during the drive and a bunch since we’ve arrived. “Why does it worry you that I haven’t cried?”
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Well, he’s…I thought you’d…I’m not sure. I just feel like it should be affecting you way more than it seems to be.”
“I haven’t felt like crying about it. That’s all. Is that wrong?”
Mom pats my knee. “No, honey, it’s not wrong. Everyone deals with things in his or her own way.” Mom taps her chin. “But you’re not even feeling a little sad, Norbert? I could try to find you a therapist you can talk to down here. I know you didn’t like the ones you went to in New Jersey, but maybe it will be different here.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need a therapist, Mom. I’m doing great. Really.” Why would Mom want me to be sad? Getting too sad is a bad thing. It’s a terrible thing.
Isn’t it?
BLOOD, SWEAT AND FRUSTRATION
I wake way before my alarm goes off. It’s still dark, but I know I won’t be able to fall back to sleep. I have too much energy.
I feel terrific, like it’s going to be the greatest day of my life, which is really weird because nothing has changed since yesterday. I slept only a couple of hours, since I had so much on my mind. You’d think I’d feel exhausted, but I’m just the opposite. Supercharged!
And I’m feeling optimistic about Dad for some reason. Things will definitely get better for him, then maybe we’ll be able to move back to Jersey and things can return to the way they were. Not that I liked school that much in Jersey, but at least Mom, Dad and I were together there. I don’t know why Mom’s talking about staying here, about getting a job and our own place.
This morning, I’m feeling way more positive about the whole basketball thing, too. Maybe while I slept for those couple hours, my brain figured out what my body needs to do to be the best basketball player in the history of Gator Lake Middle. And then Vasquez and the guys will totally worship me. I’ll single-handedly bring our team to victory.
I push off the girlie white comforter and leap out of bed. I wish basketball tryouts were today. I’d probably outperform everyone. I feel invincible.
I do some arm raises and deep knee bends, like Bubbie does when she’s waiting for someone. My legs are a little sore, but I don’t care. I pretend to dunk an imaginary basketball to the cheers of an adoring crowd. They chant the number on the back of my jersey. What will the number on my jersey be? Jersey, just like the shirt, or Jersey, the state. That’s a good sign. Right? Jersey. Jersey. I dribble around the bed with my nonexistent basketball and to the window and back, avoiding imaginary players on the other team, until I get to the basket and slam it in. “Whoa!” The crowd goes wild. Cheerleaders jump and shake their pom-poms and scream my new name. “Dunkin, Dunkin, Dunkin!” Teammates slap me on the back, then lift me up onto their shoulders. We fall into a celebratory heap.
It’s amazing.
I’m amazing.
I do so many pretend basketball moves in the guest room I wear my body out, but my mind’s still on super speed. I’m ready to GO!
When the sun finally wakes, all pink and soft clouds, I rush out back and find the basketball. Dew covers its pimply rubber surface. I bounce the ball in place a few times on the cement area near the pool. I’m able to control it, and it doesn’t fall into the pool, which I take as an excellent sign of my vast improvement since last night. I’m going to practice before Bubbie wakes. And by the time she comes out, I’ll be able to show off my awesome skills.
Fifty times, I tell myself. Throw the ball against the wall and catch it fifty times. Maybe when Bubbie comes out, I’ll be up to a hundred times with no misses. Maybe a thousand times!
You’ve got this! It’s almost like I hear Phineas’s relentlessly positive voice in my head. You’ve so got this, Dunkin!
But how would Phineas know that my nickname from Tim is Dunkin? I shake the thought from my head and bounce the ball several times.
“I’ve got this,” I say confidently to no one.
Positioning myself a few feet from the wall, I hold the basketball with both hands.
I throw the ball as hard as I can against the wall, intending to catch it and throw it again and again like a superstar basketball player. Like Jordan Jordache! Ha!
The ball, apparently, has other ideas. It rockets back at me so fast I don’t have time to react. It smashes into my face. Blam! Right into my nose.
I drop like a sack of oranges onto the spiky St. Augustine grass. “Don’t got this, Phin,” I mumble through my hand, which is catching the sticky blood now leaking everywhere.
Leaning my head back, I squeeze my nose shut, but that only makes it harder to breathe. The coppery taste of blood clogs my throat. My nose and cheekbones and eye sockets pulse with pain.
As if that’s not bad enough, I’m sweating, because even though the sun recently came up, it’s about a million humid degrees outside. I punch the top of the stupid basketball, which serves only to hurt my knuckles.
On the prickly grass, I’m covered in blood, sweat and frustration. I feel entirely deflated. EnTIREly deflated. A deflated tire. Yup, that’s me. I’m glad Phineas isn’t here to see me like this, although he’d appreciate my clever wordplay. Even Phin couldn’t be relentlessly positive in this situation. He’d probably tell me to get up and brush myself off, but I don’t. I lie on the grass, feeling increasingly irritated at everything (the stupid basketball) and everyone (Phineas). A friend shouldn’t stop communicating with a friend because he moves to another state. It wasn’t my fault. None of it was my fault.
Right, Phineas?
I hate basketball. I hate Gator Lake Middle School. I hate that I had to choose between Vasquez and Tim. I hate the sun, which is shaped suspiciously like a basketball. I hate every single thing about South Florida. And I hate Phineas Charlton Winkle most of all.
I feel instantly bad about that last one. I could never hate Phin. He’s been with me during the worst of times. I’m sure he’ll come around. That’s the way it is with him. He always shows up when I need him most.
For now, I close my eyelids against the blazing sun and realize I didn’t turn into a superstar basketball player overnight. I’m still a super klutz.
Nothing has changed.
And I’ve still got to find a way to get out of practice today.
THE INVITATION
At school, Vasquez seems genuinely happy to see me.
“Dorfman!” he calls as he approaches my locker. I like the name Dunkin better than Dorfman, but anything is better than Norbert or some of the other things I’ve been called.
Vasquez punches me in the shoulder. “Hey, what happened to your nose? And why do you have black circles under your eyes?” He reaches out and presses the area under my right eye.
“Ow.” I slap his hand away.
“Sorry, man.”
“It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t. I slam my locker closed and lie: “I walked into a door. Wasn’t paying attention.”
Vasquez laughs, even though it’s not funny. “You sure your dad didn’t do it?”
The question catches me off guard, like something heavy slammed onto my chest. I wish everyone would stop talking about Dad.
Vasquez must sense something’s off in my reaction because he gives me a little shove. “Hey, just kidding.”
I force a fake smile. “Yeah. Sure.”
“You can still practice with us after school,” Vasquez says. “Right? I mean, you’re going to be our secret weapon, Dorfman.”
This makes me feel good. Even though I know I’m still absolutely lousy at basketball, I love that Vasquez thinks of me as their secret weapon. I’d like to keep him thinking that for as long as possible, which means he can’t see me play. “Actually,” I say, “I’m not supposed to play sports for a couple days.” I point to my face, like that explains everything.
“Oh,” Vasquez says. “That sucks.” He taps me in the chest with the back of his hand. “You’ll be better by Saturday. Right? We have a pickup game on Saturday at noon. Everyone goes to that.”
My stomach plunges while my mind races to find an excuse. Meanwhile, my stupid mouth blurts, “Sure. I’ll definitely be better by Saturday.” I want to punch myself in the mouth so I don’t say anything else, but my face has had enough pain for one day.
“Great,” Vasquez says. “Can’t wait to see what kind of game you’ve got, Dorfman. Our team’s going to be awesome this year!” And he pumps a fist into the air.
I do, too, even though I know that if I’m on the team, it will be anything but awesome.
As Vasquez struts away, I realize I still have a couple days before Saturday to practice. There are worse things than being asked to play basketball by a new friend.
Much worse.
Saturday, Part 1
I should spend as much time visiting Bob as I can, since the city is going to cut him down. But I’m not sure I’ll be able to bear sitting in Bob today, with the knowledge of what’s to come. But I feel like I need to, so I pack Pop-Tarts and water in my backpack and my iPod with music by Yo-Yo Ma on it.
Sarah’s out by the pool with her Knit Wits friends, so I head out to say hi to everyone before I leave.
“Hey, Tim,” one of them says.
“How’s it going?” another asks, barely glancing up from her knitting.
“Good,” I say. “What are you guys making this time?”
I love the Knit Wits. Their club’s mission is to make the world suck less through knitting projects. It’s an international group, and Sarah’s started a local chapter.
“We’re making scarves,” Justin says. “To mail somewhere up north, where it gets really cold. Then Knit Wits up there will tie the scarves around trees and include a note that says, ‘If you’re cold and need a scarf, take one. It’s free.’ ”
“That’s incredibly cool,” I say.
Justin continues, “At the next meeting, we’ll make blankets for a camp for kids with cancer. Right, Sar?”
“Yup,” my sister says. “We’ll need bright orange and white yarn for that project.”
“You guys are rock stars,” I tell them. I tried knitting a couple times and was hopeless at it, or I’d definitely be a Knit Wit, too. “Well, happy knitting. I’m heading out to Bob.”
“Have fun,” Sarah says. “Want me to make Bob a scarf?”
The thought makes me sad, because I know he won’t be around to wear it. “Nah,” I say. “Save it for the people up north who really need it.” I’d tell Sarah and the Knit Wits what’s going to happen to Bob, but I’m afraid if I say anything about it right now, I’ll start crying.
“Bye, sis,” Sarah says in front of her Knit Wits friends.
And not one of them even looks up.
Inside the house, Dad’s on a stool at the kitchen counter, hunched over the newspaper, gripping his “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug that Grandmom Ruth bought him one year for Father’s Day. Dad’s so focused on what he’s reading, his lips are moving. This makes me smile.
“Bye, Dad,” I say, but he must not have heard me.
I ache for him to turn around and look at me.
But he doesn’t.
So I shoulder my backpack and head out into the heat, toward Bob.
SATURDAY, PART II
I’ve been awake for hours. Most of the night, really, trying to figure out how to get out of this stupid pickup basketball game.
Yesterday evening, I squeezed in one more practice session with Bubbie. There wasn’t much improvement from the first time Bubbie tried to help me, but at least I didn’t smash myself in the face.
I look in the mirror and gently press my nose. Still tender.
I’m not ready to get on a basketball court with other people watching me, judging me. Probably crashing into me. Even with Bubbie’s help, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
But the guys have been really nice to me at school this week. They included me in their conversations at lunch (mostly about girls and basketball) and offered me stuff from their lunch trays and lunch bags that they weren’t going to eat.
I can’t disappoint them today.
So I pull on shorts, even though they show my gorilla legs, and I yank a T-shirt over my head. Then I give Mom and Bubbie kisses on their cheeks and say “No thanks” to Bubbie’s offer of a sawdust and raisin muffin.
Of course I forget to bring water, and it’s a sauna outside. I’ve got to remember important things, like water, on boiling hot days. It’s not till I’m near school—my stomach a nervous mess from worrying about the guys seeing me attempt to play—that I realize I forgot something else: taking my medicine. Yesterday, too.
Oh well, too late now. It probably won’t make a difference. I’ll just have to be more careful from now on.
My head feels fuzzy, though, and I have a pulsing headache. Caffeine. I need coffee. And maybe a doughnut.
There’s a five-dollar bill in my pocket that Bubbie handed me last night after what she deemed “a determined effort” during drills. (I think “determined” was a euphemism for “pathetic” and the five dollars was pity money, but I’ve got no shame since I’m perpetually broke. I took the cash.)
I’m really close to school and can actually hear the ball bouncing on the court behind the building. Someone calls, “I’m open! Pass it!”
The guys must be sweating and laughing and throwing the ball to each other, blocking shots and running for rebounds. (Bubbie made me watch basketball videos last night, while she explained what the players were doing and why. She taught me terminology, too. My bubbie is like a walking basketball Wiki. I should have paid her five bucks for all her help.)
I imagine Vasquez passing the ball to me, fast and hard, and it hitting me square in my tender, bruised nose. I see myself crumpling onto the court, blood squirting from my nostrils while the guys stand around in a circle of shame. In my mind, they point at me while I lie curled on the court, gushing blood, and Vasquez shakes his head. “Why did we think he could play basketball with us?”
My thoughts make my heart pound, as though these awful things are actually happening.
I touch my nose—still sore. Then I decide to do the only sensible thing—turn around and walk away as fast as possible.
Toward salvation.
Toward Dunkin’ Donuts.
I’ll bet Vasquez and the guys won’t even notice I didn’t show.
Too Many Butterflies
I thought visiting Bob might make me feel less lonely.
But while I’m perched in his sturdy branches, listening to Yo-Yo Ma’s beautiful cello music through my earbuds, a chasm the size of the Beckford Palms Public Library opens in my chest. I think about how Dad didn’t turn and look at me before I left the house. He had to have heard me. I was right there. I think about how Dunkin sat at the Neanderthals’ lunch table all week. I think about how Dare’s been busier than ever, with hardly any time for me. After school and on weekends, she’s got riding lessons and piano practice and lacrosse practice, and unlike me, she has plenty of other friends to hang out with. Maybe Dare’s even making new friends this year, while all I’m doing is sitting in the branches of a doomed banyan tree.
Why would anyone want to be friends with me anyway?
If only I could get started on hormone blockers, I know I’d feel better about myself. I’d stop worrying so much about changing in ways I don’t want to. And if I felt better about myself, maybe I’d act more confident and then other people would like me more. Maybe…
I turn the sound up on my iPod to block out my thoughts, but it doesn’t help. I still feel miserable.
A memory of my eighth birthday party floats into my mind. Mom said I should give out invitations to everyone in my class, so no one would feel left out. I made a party favor for each person. It took forever to fill twenty-one plastic butterfly container party favors with different-colored sand. The day of my party, I waited, wearing a silly birthday hat, and the only person who showed up was Dare. Dare, with her gift of a tiny bonsai tree, which I still have. Dare, who always showed. At the time, it didn’t feel like enough, though, but now it makes me love her even more. My self-assured friend who tolerates my lack of self-assuredness.
I wish Dare were here with me now.
I wish someone were here now.
The remaining twenty sand-filled butterflies looked so pretty sitting on my bureau, but they were a constant reminder of my no-show party, of my feeling unwanted.
Tipping my head back, I look through Bob’s leaves to the cloud-filled sky. Then I break off bits of strawberry Pop-Tart and attempt to fill the empty space inside myself, bite after bite. Unfortunately, it’s like trying to fill the Grand Canyon with breadcrumbs.
After two Pop-Tarts, I feel stuffed and empty at the same time.
Then I see someone who gives me a tiny ray of hope.
And I sit tall in Bob’s strong branches.
Norbert and Tim, Sitting in a Tree
By the time I’ve walked only a few blocks, my headache has intensified.
I. Need. Coffee.
Also, I feel kind of bad for ditching the guys at the court.
Part of me wants to turn and go back and join them, but I’ve got this killer headache, and they’re probably well into their game and I’d only be interrupting.
I look up at the sky, as though some answer will be imprinted there on the clouds. Instead, I see something that makes my stomach tighten.
Someone.
“Hey, down there!”
It’s Tim, sitting in that dumb tree.
Man, my head hurts. “What?” I ask, irritation in my voice. Is he going to yell at me again for not sitting with him during lunch?
“Climb up and join me,” Tim says, his voice high-pitched, hopeful.
Tim is the only thing standing between me and the sweet relief of iced coffee. I shield my eyes against the sun. “No thanks. I’m good.” I guess Tim is over being mad at me for sitting with the guys instead of him and Dare in the cafeteria.
“Okay,” Tim says, sounding hurt, which really annoys me. I can’t help that I have a fear of heights. And even if I didn’t, why would I want to climb into a stupid tree? What if someone saw me up there? What if Vasquez and the guys walked past after their game and saw me sitting in a tree? With Tim!
Norbert and Tim, sitting in a tree…
“You sure?” Tim asks. “Great view from up here.”
For a moment, I wonder if he can see the basketball courts from up there and how cool that might be. I shake the thought from my head.
I look up at Tim and shout, “I’m sure!” And I head to Dunkin’ Donuts, my head pounding like a jackhammer.
