Plunked (13 page)

I finish taking off the ACE bandage just as the bus door opens in front of me. I feel like an undercover mummy. I stuff it into my open backpack as I climb the steps and turn to survey my seating options.

Of course, I end up sitting with the same guy.

“Hey, Zeb,” I say, collapsing into the seat.

“Hey,” he says.

We don't say anything for most of the ride. Neither of us wants to talk about the game for completely opposite reasons. He's afraid he'll give something away. What a joke.

The silence gets a little awkward after a while. We hit a monster pothole, same one we always hit, and Zeb goes, “Waa-ha!” He doesn't exactly say it to me, and it's not exactly a word, but it's something.

It feels like it's my turn, so I say, “Anyone ever call you Z?”

“No,” he says. “Why?”

But I misunderstand.

“They call you Y?” I say.

He just looks at me, and then we both realize what happened and start laughing. The two boys in the seat in front of us turn around. They're younger, like fourth grade. “What's so funny?” says the bigger of the two.

“Ask Y!” I say, and we both lose it again.

The fourth graders just look at each other — like: Did we miss something? — and turn back around.

Zeb and I get serious when the bus turns up the hill toward school. For him, it's a game face. For me, it's something worse.

I try not to be too mopey around Andy. I feel worse than I have all week, but it's not his fault. I'm carrying around the ACE in my backpack all day, like a trophy for Loser of the Year. I have English last today, and we have a test on
The Island of Dr. Moreau
. I know I'm going to review those notes right before, so I put a sticky note at the top. “Remember AB,” it says, so I'll remember to put the ACE bandage on again when I go home. It's code, in case anyone sneaks a look at my notes.

The island turned out to be a total nightmare. I mean, surprise, right? Pumping out half human, half animal monsters on a deserted island goes wrong? Whuh? Still, it doesn't seem like such a bad place to be right now. Put me
on some island in the middle of the ocean. I'll take my chances with the Him-panzees and the hungry, hungry Her-pos.

Anyway, the test I'm pretty much ready for. It's getting to last period that's the tough part. Lunch is the worst. For the first time all year, I have to think hard about where to sit. Usually there's no question. But now I'm walking toward my normal spot, and I see a table full of starters. They're already talking a mile a minute, and I know what they're talking about.

A few tables over, there's half a dozen Rockies doing the same thing. Not like anyone could hear anything over all the noise in here at lunchtime, but both tables are leaning in, like they're swapping secrets. There are other tables across the caf doing the same thing.

If I sit down at my normal table, it's going to be a pity party. At the start of the season, we were all just hoping to start. Now, all of a sudden, I'm the only one of my friends who isn't a starter. Except Chester, I guess, but he's our best sub, so he might as well be one.

The table is packed today. There's space to squeeze in, but my usual spot is taken by Jackson. That's enough of an excuse for me. As I walk up, a few of them start to scoot over to make room. I shake my head no.

“I can't fit there,” I say, even though it's pretty obvious I could. “Gonna grab an open spot. Have to cram for English.”

They look at me with open mouths, maybe not hearing me or maybe just not believing it, trying to decide if it's another one of my lame jokes. Andy has his head up, trying to make eye contact. If he sees my eyes, he'll know I'm ducking them. I avoid looking directly at him. I just nod and keep walking.

It feels weird. It feels, I don't know … bad.

The cafeteria is dotted with kids who used to play, kids who dropped out in minors or didn't make the jump to majors. We call them washouts, and right now, I'm avoiding their eyes, too. There's an empty spot up ahead, a few kids I sort of know. It's not that big a school.

“Mind if I grab a seat?” I say to no one in particular.

No one in particular objects, so I drop my tray onto the table with a loud plastic
blonk!

I look around and see button-up shirts, glasses, and two kids playing each other on matching handheld video games. I know where I am. I know what table this is. You do, too.

“To what do we owe this rare honor?” says Jared.

“All full up over there,” I say, shrugging.

Jared looks over. He's not dumb.

I try again: “Gotta study.”

You'd think they could at least get behind that.

“So how ya been?” he says, ignoring what I just said or just not believing it. In his world, I'm a jock, and jocks don't study.

In my world, everyone calls him Comic-book Guy, and no one talks to him. But my world is changing. I'm changing it.

I exhale loudly, but he acts like he doesn't notice. I realize everyone else at the table has stopped talking. Those two kids have paused their games.

“Ehh,” I say. “I'll survive.”

The talking starts up again. I want to look back. To see if Andy, Tim, Dustin, Chester, and Jackson are looking over here or if they're already back to leaning in and talking low about the game. I want to, but I don't.

“How'd you do?” Andy says after last period.

He's talking about the test. We still haven't talked about lunch.

“I aced it,” I say, and that's just the reminder I need.
Remember AB.

“Thanks,” I say.

“For what?”

“Nothing,” I say.

We head to the buses.

“See you tomorrow!” he says.

I'm supposed to say something like “Yeah, gonna crush 'em!” but I just nod.

He probably thinks I'm just down about losing my spot, so he tries again. “You'll be in there by the third.”

No I won't, I think, but I just nod again. We reach the point where we have to split up to go to our buses.

“See ya,” I say.

“Yeah, OK,” he says. And then, “We're gonna destroy 'em.”

I nod again and head for my bus.

I consider calling out, “Mercy rule,” just to make him happy, but I won't do it. He's my best friend, and I won't lie to him.

Lying to my parents, on the other hand, I mean, that's different. It's not even really lying. It's like part of the game, right? Like stealing a base? OK, so maybe that's not exactly true, but don't even pretend you've never faked a fever or blamed the cat for breaking something or anything like that. Don't even pretend to pretend.

Still, I have to lay it on pretty thick, and I definitely don't feel good about it. I walk around all night with my carefully bandaged wristband.

“Let me take a look at it,” says Mom.

“No!” I say, and then, “The school nurse taped it up underneath. Supposed to keep it taped until tomorrow.”

I'm in so deep now, what does one more lie even matter?

“It's a wrap, hon,” she says. “I can just unwrap it and
wrap it right back up after. It's not like we're sawing off a cast here.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but, I mean, all you'd see is tape, right?”

She gives me a long look and I walk away, hoping she won't call me back. She doesn't. The whole night is like that. I go up to my room early and kill about 10,000 video game soldiers in
Grunt Front
. I fire the grenade launcher until I'm out, then I overheat the machine gun and finally go down swinging with the knife.

The game is still on when I wake up in the morning. The screen saver is bouncing around from corner to corner.

I get up and turn it off, then go back and lie on top of the covers. The ACE is lying like a deflated snake on my desk, but I still have the wristband on, so I don't forget. It's easy to forget an injury when it's not real. Not much chance of that today.

If I do this, there's no going back. If I take this lie all the way and skip this game, that's it.

I roll around on the bed just to wake myself up so I can think. It's like, if I shake my brain hard enough, it will come up with the right decision. Like it's a Magic 8 Ball. I stop rolling around, but all my brain comes up with is: outlook unclear. I might even be a little dizzy.

I stand up again and walk over to my desk. I pinch the end of the ACE against my palm with my thumb and start wrapping. There are a few hours before the game. I can still take it off and tell my parents it feels good enough to
play. I can even tell them that's why I'm not starting. It's a pretty good plan, except then I'd have to bat. Everyone bats at least once in Little League. And Coach might give me more. He'd think he was doing me a favor.

I can picture that at-bat. I can feel it in my stomach.

I keep wrapping until I'm done.

I walk all of twenty feet, close the door to the bathroom, and unwrap it all again for my shower.

“How's the wrist, sport?” Dad asks as soon as I walk into the kitchen.

I just look at him. How do I tell him I haven't decided yet?

I make a show of trying to flex it.

“Ehh,” I say.

“Ehh?” he says, not satisfied.

“Little stiff,” I say.

“Well, give it a bit.”

“Yuh,” I say, and pour myself some cereal.

Mom comes in, either to get something or because she heard me.

“Little stiff,” Dad reports.

I look up and nod.

That's the thing about these big decisions: You can make them one little step at a time. An hour later, I'm ready to take a big one. “Not sure I'll be able to play today,” I say. “Just don't think I can swing the bat.”

And at least the second half of that is true.

“Well,” says Dad, looking at his watch, “you got … maybe … fifty minutes before we leave.”

And that's when I realize it: They plan to go to the game either way. I can't go to the game with this wrap on! The whole team knows I'm not hurt. I feel a big wave of panic roll in.

“Y'okay,” I say, and push through the door out onto the lawn. It's only at the last second that I remember not to use my left hand.

Oh man oh man oh man. If I go to the game, I have to take the wrap off. But if I take the wrap off, I have to play. And I can't play. They'll be pitching me hard inside, hard inside. If I get hit again right now, I don't even know what will happen. And even if I don't, I'll just get embarrassed again up there. I'll get embarrassed, and I'll let the team down. What if there are runners on? What if we're behind? You can't just give up at-bats and expect to win.

I start to list it off:

I could get hit.

I could be humiliated.

I could cost my team the game.

My parents could talk to someone and find out I've been lying.

I kick the big tree out front and run through all the swears I know. It's a pretty good list.

And it's stupid, too, because, I mean, of course they'd want to go. I've never missed a game before. I've dragged
myself to the field even if it was just to sit on the bench all game. I've shown up with colds, the flu, limps, bruises, and everything else short of a knife sticking out of my chest.

It's completely clear now. They plan to take me to the field, and they're probably like 90 percent sure I'll play anyway.

I look over my shoulder. Mom is watching me through the front window. I suck in air and look down quick at the ACE. It's fine, and I breathe out. I don't know why I thought it had come undone. I guess it's because everything else has.