Day two in school, the guys meet me at my locker. Vasquez slops his arm over my shoulders. “Practice at the courts behind school tomorrow.”
He’s smiling, so I smile, but inside I’m not smiling. Maybe there’s a seventh way to die in South Florida—by humiliation on the basketball court.
“Tomorrow?” I ask in a voice that’s way too high-pitched for a guy my size.
His arm slips off. “You busy tomorrow? ’Cause we’ve gotta practice.”
“Not busy.”
“Great,” Vasquez says, and squeezes me around the neck way too hard. Eighth way to die?
Then he and the guys walk off. They don’t get too far down the hall when I see Vasquez push Tim’s notebook out of his arms. I shake my head because that was a dumb thing to do, but at least he didn’t hit Tim or anything.
Besides, I can’t worry about that now. I’ve got to figure out how to play basketball.
By tomorrow!
A Very Bad Sign
The only bad thing that happens today is Vasquez knocking my notebook out of my arms. No words are said. He doesn’t even push me. It could have been much worse.
I take this as a good sign.
In PE, we watch a film about proper nutrition and don’t have to change into PE clothes, which is another good sign. I wish we could watch a film in PE every day. My life sans having to go into a boys’ locker room would be infinitely easier. Imagine walking into the wrong public restroom and having to stay there. That’s how I feel all the time.
Mr. Creighton’s Language Arts class is amazing! He tells us we’re going to write a short story, and the art students are going to illustrate it. Then we’re going to have a party with the authors and illustrators signing their creations. He’s going to provide the cookies, juice, music and prizes and make it like a real publishing party at a bookstore.
I have no idea what I’ll write about, but it will be fun to read my classmates’ stories, especially Dunkin’s. Even though he’s been kind of a jerk since school started, I’d still like to get to know him better, maybe give him another chance. I have a feeling there are interesting things going on in that head of his. I feel like he might be a kindred spirit. But he sat with the Neanderthals at lunch again. Any buddy of the Neanderthals can’t be a friend of mine, which is a shame because I could use another friend. Dare’s been so busy lately with her other buds, practicing lacrosse and stuff.
After school as I walk toward Bob, I think about all the great things that happened today—especially the publishing party we’ll have in Mr. Creighton’s class—and I’m in such a good mood I almost don’t notice the sign.
Almost.
But then I see it on a wooden post, jammed into the ground several yards in front of Bob. I let the words settle into my soul. Then I rush into a stall in the library restroom and heave. Only a little bit comes out—an acidy, vile version of the Pop-Tart I ate at lunch.
After standing in the stall and catching my breath, I gain the courage to go back outside and reread the sign. Just to be sure.
I read the words I want to un-know the moment I know them.
Then I’m sure.
This is very bad.
A REQUEST
“Bubbie, I need your help,” I say during dinner.
She sits up taller, which is sort of a lost cause since she’s so short. “How can I help, bubela?”
I force down a bite of salmon, hoping the tiny bones don’t poke my throat. “I need to get good at basketball. Fast.”
Mom grins.
“I want to try out for the school team.”
“That’s terrific, Norbert!” Mom says too loudly.
Bubbie looks me up and down, then shakes her head. “I’ll do what I can. But don’t expect to be the next Michael Jordache.”
“Jordan,” Mom corrects.
“Jordan Jordache.” Bubbie waves her hand dismissively. “Whatever.” Then Bubbie points her fork at me. “Meet me out back after dinner and we’ll do drills.” She sizes me up. “Lots and lots of drills.”
“What kind of drills?” I ask, feeling the tiny bones poking me in the throat. Way #9 to die in South Florida?
“Oy vey,” Bubbie says. “Just be grateful your old bubbie has a basketball and meet me out back.”
As I shovel sautéed spinach with garlic into my mouth, I realize I am grateful…because if I don’t get good at basketball in a hurry, Vasquez and the guys probably won’t want to hang out with me anymore.
Then I’ll be right back where I started when I arrived in South Florida.
Nowhere.
With no one to hang out with.
DISASTROUS DRILLS
I’m wearing jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers when I join Bubbie out back, after our disgusting dinner of salmon and garlic spinach. (Mom snuck me three chocolate chunk, butterscotch macadamia cookies as soon as Bubbie went out back, and I’m thankful she kept me from starving.)
There’s a grassy area and a cement area to the side of Bubbie’s pool, but no basketball court.
“How are we going to practice without a hoop?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about that, Jordan Jordache,” Bubbie says, and surprises me by throwing the basketball—hard—like a cannon shot. Bubbie might be short, but she’s got some serious strength.
The basketball slams into my chest before I can react.
“Why’d you do that?” I rub my chest.
Bubbie grabs the ball from the grass, puts it in the crook of her arm and walks so close we’re practically nose to belly button. She looks up and opens her mouth, and the smell of garlic and fish on her breath makes me gag. “Norbert Dorfman,” she says, reaching up and poking me in my already sore chest. “Rule number one of basketball: When someone passes you the ball, catch it. And not with your chest.”
I stop rubbing my chest, even though it still hurts.
“And don’t you have a pair of athletic shorts to wear? It’s too hot for jeans.”
“I’m good,” I say, even though my legs are sweating so much the fabric is sticking to my skin.
Bubbie squints at me and walks over to the section of cement. “Let’s try something safer.”
She demonstrates how to dribble back and forth between her right and left hands.
When I try it, I can’t get the rhythm right and fumble the ball. Wait. Fumbling is football. I’m hopeless.
Bubbie throws me some easy passes.
I miss at least 60 percent of them.
Then she tells me to throw the ball against the wall and catch it fifty times in a row without missing.
I make it three times before I miss the ball. Then five times. Then two. Then seven. Fifty in a row without missing?
My arms are sore. My chest still hurts. My head throbs. I need more caffeine. “I quit!”
“You can’t quit, Norbert. We’re just getting started.”
“Thanks, Bubbie.” I drop the ball. “But I’m done.”
I go into the house and up to the guest room, knowing I’ve got to find a way to get out of basketball practice tomorrow.
About a half hour later, Bubbie comes in. I worry she’ll be mad at me for quitting drills.
“Hi, bubela,” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed.
She doesn’t sound mad, so I get up and show her my newest magic trick with the pepper shaker.
“Now, that’s a good one,” Bubbie says. “And don’t worry, Norbert. You’ll get the basketball thing. It’ll just take time. And practice. Do you think Jordan Jordache got famous overnight?”
I sneak the pepper shaker into the trash basket for now, get up and give Bubbie a big hug.
“Want to join your mother and me at the movies?” she asks.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a beautiful story about a woman who reconnects with the love of her life fifty years after she first met him.”
“Um, no. Thanks anyway.”
“Suit yourself,” Bubbie says, and strolls out.
I’m glad she’s getting Mom to go with her, but maybe they should have chosen a comedy. Mom needs something to cheer herself up; she still seems pretty sad most of the time.
While they’re at the movie, I practice magic tricks, like the levitating pencil and the disappearing scarf. I’m pretty good at them now. And I try to come up with a way to get out of basketball practice with the guys tomorrow. I’m not so good at that.
What About Bob?
Future site of the
Beckford Palms Community Park.
Your tax dollars at work.
This site will be cleared
and construction will begin
on a new playground.
“The community that plays together…stays together!”
—Mayor Higginbotham
I climb into Bob’s branches and hold on tight, but it’s no use.
I can’t relax when the sign’s words keep bouncing around in my mind: This site will be cleared…Bob is the only thing on the lot. What else could “be cleared” refer to? How could anyone want to get rid of Bob? People love this tree. Little kids climb it. I climb it. People stop under it for shade when they’re walking their dogs. I’ve even seen people picnic beneath it. Mom and I have picnicked beneath it.
Beckford Palms needs Bob. Not some dumb park.
I need Bob.
He’s a perfectly healthy tree. It doesn’t make sense to get rid of him. And the worst part is that he has no idea what’s going to happen to him. Or maybe somehow he does, because a strong wind whooshes past, and Bob sheds a few leaves on me—as though he’s crying.
The only thing that makes the walk home bearable is the flamingos stuck into a couple of the lawns at Beckford Palms Estates. I’m growing to love those unexpected plastic birds.
One of the flamingos has a tiny hat with a peace sign on it. Another has a rainbow-colored scarf wrapped around its skinny neck. And a third has a small Elmo doll taped to its beak. Elmo was my favorite character from Sesame Street when I was little. (Sarah told me I learned to read from watching Sesame Street.)
A Beckford Palms golf cart pulls up, and some guy angrily plucks the funny flamingos from the lawns, tosses them into the back of the cart and drives away, taking the one bit of pizzazz from this boring, bland neighborhood with him.
Terrific.
Every good thing gets taken away.
