Mind If I Read Your Mind? (10 page)

The passing demonstration was equally impressive. Billy watched in amazement as Paul shot chest passes and bounce passes across the stage to Samir and Emily. All Billy could think was that Paul was a better athlete with half his body than Billy was with his whole one. Ricardo leaned over and whispered in his ear.

“You better do a humongous job, dude, because this guy rocks.”

What Ricardo didn't know was that Paul hadn't even gotten to the good part yet. His dribbling demonstration was so dramatic that you could actually hear people in the audience gasping in amazement. Before he started, Samir and Emily set up orange cones in a straight line along the stage. Then Paul set off in his wheelchair, dribbling the ball and weaving between the cones until he reached the other side. On the way back, he did the same thing … dribbling two balls!

The audience burst into applause. They gave Paul a standing ovation that went on for a full minute. The judges each held up their paddles — ten, ten, ten. A perfect score! From the audience, the Hoove saw that Billy was looking panic-stricken, so he flipped into hyperglide and zoomed up to the stage.

“Don't look so nervous,” he said as he hovered over Billy. “That guy was good, I'll give you that. But never forget the Hoove's Rule Number Two Hundred and Eight. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. We can take this.”

“I'm not so sure,” Billy whispered.

“I didn't hear that,” the Hoove said. “What I heard is YES WE CAN. Now, are you ready to win this thing?”

“I have to get at least all nines,” Billy said. “That's hard to do.”

“Not for us it isn't,” the Hoove said, looking him square in the eye and putting both his pale hands on Billy's shoulders. “Remember, YES WE CAN. Now, let's do it.”

As he flew into the audience to take his position next to Tess Wu, his voice echoed around the room with a ghostly howl. “Yyyyesssssss wwweeeeeeeeee caaaaaaaaaaaaaan!”

It took Mr. Wallwetter quite a few minutes of tapping on the microphone to get the kids to settle down.

“I need your attention, people,” he repeated over and over. “Our final contestant is waiting. Attention, people. Attention, please!”

No matter what he said, the kids kept applauding and shouting for Paul. Poor Mr. Wallwetter got so frustrated that his mustache actually twitched, which made it look like a very skinny caterpillar was hiccuping on his upper lip. When Paul saw that there was no way Mr. Wallwetter was going to get control of the cheering kids, he spoke into his headset microphone.

“Listen up, you guys,” he said. “The other team still has a chance to pull this out. I know I'm a hard act to follow, but show some respect to my man Billy over there.”

That made the kids quiet down. Billy barely noticed the noise level dipping and the kids taking their seats. He was deep in thought.

“Our next contestant is Billy Broccoli, who stunned my first-period English class with his amazing feat of mind reading,” Mr. Wallwetter said. “Billy, come forward.”

Billy walked to the center of the stage staring at his feet the whole time.

“Look up,” the Hoove shouted as he hovered in the audience above an unsuspecting Tess Wu. “There's nothing on that floor but wood and scuff marks. Show them your eyes, Billy Boy. Command the room.”

Billy didn't even look at Hoover. He couldn't. A feeling was rising up inside his chest … a feeling he knew the Hoove wouldn't like one bit.

Mr. Wallwetter spent more time than he needed adjusting the microphone to Billy's height. It was just an excuse to whisper his final instructions in Billy's ear.

“You have to get twenty-seven points for the win,” he muttered. “Go for three nines. That's what I'm expecting from you. Nothing less. Hopefully more.”

Billy noticed that Mr. Wallwetter's breath smelled like egg salad. He had never been a fan of egg salad.

Mr. Wallwetter took his place in the wings, while Billy stood alone in front of the microphone. He looked out at the sea of expectant faces in the audience. He knew that he and the Hoove could amaze them with their mind-reading trick. But after watching Paul, he realized that their demonstration was exactly that — a trick. What Paul did was real, the result of a lifetime of effort and work and courage. And what was he going to demonstrate?

A trick. A fake. A lie.

“Let's get this show on the road,” the Hoove shouted at him. “Open that mouth of yours and commence. You're looking a little pitiful up there.”

Billy did open his mouth and commence.

“Does anyone here have a watch with a second hand?” he said.

Samir raised his hand.

“You don't need a watch!” the Hoove shouted. “That's not in the plan. Have Tess stand up. Tell her you're going to read her mind. Get to it, Billy Boy.”

“I've changed my topic at the last minute,” Billy said. “I have decided to demonstrate my amazing ability to recite the alphabet backward in under fifteen seconds. Samir, I'd like you to time me.”

“Noooooooooo!” the Hoove hollered. “Don't do it, Billy. It's dull. It's boring. Trust me, it is dangerously uncool. You'll ruin your social life forever. There's still time to change your mind.”

Billy paused on the stage, thinking carefully about the Hoove's words. He was right. The mind-reading trick was exciting. It was mysterious. It would probably win his team the SOC contest. And it would make him the center of attention at school for a long time to come.

Billy looked at Paul Costello, who gave him a thumbs-up.
He
was a cool guy. Genuinely cool. There was nothing fake about him.

“I'm ready when you are, Samir,” Billy said.

Samir looked at his watch, then pointed a finger at Billy.

“Go,” he said.

“Don't go!” the Hoove shouted. “I'm begging you.”

Billy took a deep breath.

“Z … Y … X … W …”

“You're killing me,” cried the Hoove. “I was sent here to help you. I'm getting graded on this!”

“N … M … L … K … J …”

“Now I'm going to be stuck here for all eternity,” the Hoove cried. “Thanks a lot, Billy Broccoli.”

Billy continued with the alphabet. The Hoove was so furious that he spun around, flipped into hyperglide, and zoomed out of the auditorium.

Billy didn't care. He finished anyway.

“E … D … C … B … A!”

A few kids in the audience applauded. Billy saw that most of the applause was coming from Breeze and her friends. He appreciated the support.

“How'd I do?” Billy asked Samir, who was still staring at his watch.

“Nineteen seconds,” he answered.

“Ha ha ha! You stink, Broccoli,” Rod Brownstone called out from the audience. Some kids around him laughed as well, and Ms. Winter had to go to the microphone and tell them their behavior was inappropriate.

Billy looked over at Mr. Wallwetter as he waited for the judge's scores. The poor man had flopped down into a folding chair in the wings and was nervously tugging at his stringy little mustache. Billy felt bad about letting him down, but he knew he had done the right thing. He walked back to his chair and sat down.

“What happened, dude?” Ricardo whispered.

Before Billy could answer, the judges held up their paddles. Eight. Seven. Eight.

Mr. Wallwetter's head fell into his hands. He was taking it hard. Then he composed himself and walked to the stage, where Ms. Winter was waiting for him at the microphone.

“The final score is Team Wallwetter seventy-one points, Team Winter seventy-four points,” he announced. “On behalf of my team, I congratulate the winners — Emily Yamaguchi, Samir Shah, and Paul Costello.”

Paul accepted the trophy on behalf of their team, and once again, he got a standing ovation.

“The Wallwetters were great competitors,” he told the audience. “Ruby, nice recovery on stage. Billy, impressive try. You'll get it next time. And Ricardo … what can I say?”

He rolled over to Ricardo and held up his hand for a high five, one athlete to another.

“Maybe you should stick to baseball, man. That mayonnaise thing was ugly.”

Everyone laughed, especially Ricardo.

It was a tradition that the losing team had to stay behind and take the chairs down from the stage. Mr. Wallwetter claimed he had a headache and went back to his room, leaving the kids under the supervision of Mr. Labelle, the school custodian. As they folded up the chairs and carried them to the storage closet, Billy knew he had to explain himself to Ricardo and Ruby.

“So I sort of let you guys down,” he began. “I'm really sorry.”

“I guess your mind-reading skills weren't working today,” Ruby said, gathering up the name tags and putting the plastic holders in the recycling bin. “Is that what happened?”

“They were never really working,” Billy said. “I can't read minds. It was a little trick I developed.”

“Want to tell us how you did it?” Ricardo asked.

There it was. The question he had been dreading. Billy hesitated. He didn't want to lie, but there was no way he could tell them about the Hoove. Then he remembered a magic show he had seen on television that had interviews with all the great magicians.

“A good magician never reveals his secrets,” he told Ricardo, repeating what he had heard the Amazing Cardini say when asked how he did his tricks. He hoped it would be enough to satisfy Ricardo and Ruby. And it was.

“Well, I messed up, too,” Ruby said.

“It happens,” Ricardo said. “You can't expect to be perfect. Even the great baseball players only get a hit thirty percent of the time.”

“So you're not mad at me?” Billy asked Ricardo.

“Forget it, man. Nobody hits a home run every time at bat. By the way,” Ricardo said as Billy helped him haul the chairs to the storage closet, “that was a fun sleepover. Maybe we can have another one this weekend. No trips to Dodger Stadium, but we can hang out. Is that cool with you?”

“Very cool,” Billy said.

He looked calm on the outside, but inside Billy was jumping up and down. He felt like laughing and crying at the same time. He never knew making friends could be so easy.

When Billy got home from school that afternoon, he headed straight for his room. The hallway had the strong smell of orange juice, so he knew Hoover was nearby, probably waiting to yell at him.

“Hoove,” he called once he was safely inside with the door closed. “Come out. I know you're here.”

“What's it to you?” came the muffled voice from inside the closet. “It seems my advice is no longer needed by a certain someone who thinks he knows more than I do.”

“Don't be a pain. I have stuff to tell you.”

“I've already seen this movie, Billy Boy. You made a fool of yourself because you didn't listen to me, and now you want to apologize. That's getting to be a habit with you and me. Well, this time, it's too late. I'm sure the Higher-Ups are writing down the F on my report card as we speak.”

“Why would they fail you?”

“In case you forgot, I get graded for Helping Others. You refused to let me help. And if you look bad, I look bad. End of story.”

Billy walked over to the closet and pulled the door open. The Hoove was floating in midair, his head resting on a stack of T-shirts and his feet draped over the hanger that held Billy's brown dress-up suit pants. He held his hand up to shield his eyes from the sunlight that flooded in.

“Easy there, buddy. My baby blues are going into shock. I left my sunglasses back in the 1940s and have been looking for them ever since.”

“Hoove,” Billy said. “I didn't look bad. I did fine.”

“Did you win?”

“No.”

“Then I'm here to tell you, you looked bad.”

“Hoove, the other team deserved to win. They were better. And I felt good because I competed the honest way. Without pretending to be something I'm not. I had to do it my way, not yours.”

“The fact remains that you ignored me, Billy Boy. Just like the other night when you ignored me and went off with what's-his-name-the-baseball-star to Dodger Stadium. Your new best friend. That hurt me.”

“I'm sorry I did that. I didn't realize that it would make you feel so bad. I tried to apologize.”

“Yeah, I heard you, when you were having that convo with the squirrel.”

“That was you?”

“Who you calling a rodent? I was on the branch above him.”

“And you didn't say anything?”

“I wasn't ready. I had a good mind to leave you forever, to tell the Higher-Ups that I'm done trying, that I can no longer be of any help to you.”

“So why'd you come back?”

“Met a guy. He said it's not over 'til it's over.”

Billy couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“You met Yogi Berra?” he said, his eyes wide with wonder.

“I got friends in high places. Anyway, let's get back to the subject at hand. I think it
is
over between us. You got your new friends. You don't need me. So I'll just be heading out. Maybe there's another kid on the block who needs a personal ghost.”

“Wait, Hoove. I got something for you. I want you to have it.”

Billy went over to his pink desk and slid open the top drawer. He took out a small silver metal box and handed it to the Hoove.

“Breath mints?” the Hoove said, looking at the box label that showed little blue mints tumbling down a waterfall. “You sure know how to pick swell presents.”

“Just open it,” Billy said.

The Hoove pried open the lid and looked inside the box. It was filled with dirt, packed down solid all the way to the rim.

“Dirt?” Hoover couldn't hide his disappointment. “You got me a box of dirt. This is how you say thank you and good-bye?”

“It's from Dodger Stadium,” Billy said. “I felt so bad that you couldn't go with me that I borrowed this box from Ricardo's uncle. Then I snuck out to the pitcher's mound, dug up some of the ground right next to the rubber, and packed it in here for you. I figured that if you can't go to Dodger Stadium, at least I could bring a little bit of it to you. There's enough dirt there to put your toes in.”

Hoover Porterhouse III was rarely at a loss for words. He had a smart remark for every occasion. But as he stood there holding the box that Billy had brought him, he didn't have anything clever to say. He touched the dirt with his transparent fingers.

“This is really from the pitcher's mound?”

“The same one that Sandy Koufax stood on when he pitched that perfect game against the Chicago Cubs.”

“September 9, 1965. I remember it well. I watched it on TV. The family that lived here then, the Norberts, still had a black-and-white set. It didn't matter, though. It was a beautiful thing to watch in any color.”

For a moment, it was as if the Hoove was a real boy, and he and his best friend were having a conversation about a special moment they both loved.

“I don't get many presents,” the Hoove said, closing the little metal box and putting it in his pocket. “But I can tell you right now, Billy Boy, this is the best one I've ever gotten.”

He looked toward the window, then back at Billy.

“I wish you'd stay,” Billy said. “I could still use your help.”

“Well, your wardrobe is pretty weak,” the Hoove said. “And your personal grooming definitely needs some improvement. And you have a lot of work to do on that baseball swing. And I can't even go into your fielding right now.”

“So?” Billy asked. Even though he only said one word, his voice was filled with nervousness.

“I guess I could give it another shot,” the Hoove answered. “And you're going to listen better. Right?”

Billy nodded. “Sit down and I'll show you all the pictures I took for you at Dodger Stadium. Who knows? Maybe one day we'll get to go there together.”

“I'd like that,” the Hoove said. “No one I'd rather go with.”

The two boys were so busy poring over the photos of Dodger Stadium that neither of them noticed the glowing words that were etched with an invisible finger on the window of Billy's room. They said:

Helping Others: B-(but shows improvement).