The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco (14 page)

A
fter an hour and a half of hanging upside down, even the best acrobat will get dizzy and take a break. Just thinking about all the dodgeballs that had whizzed his way since his first dodgeball game made Phillip dizzy. Hadn’t he earned a break, too?

Coach scarcely cared when Phillip showed his bandaged finger and asked to sit out. Phillip had feared he would have to go to the nurse’s office and get a note. Instead, Coach treated him like an insect not worth swatting

Phillip climbed to the top of the bleachers like he was ascending a throne. He would be immune to the chaos below. But as soon as he was there and felt the cold, hard wood beneath him, he wondered if he had done the right thing.

The kids picked teams and went to their respective sides.

A couple of them glanced up at Phillip. He hoped they understood. Once he’d won the injunction, they’d be safe, too. Until then, he had to save himself, especially with a whole gang after him.

Coach put the first ball on the line, then the second, and the third. With each ball, Phillip felt his heart beating harder,
like the quickening pace of a drum. Coach looked up at Phillip. It felt as if he knew Phillip’s thoughts.

“B.B.,” Coach yelled, “grab another ball.” The gym was so silent you could hear the sound of her sneakers squeaking across the floor. Coach took the ball and added it to the line.

“Let the game begin,” he said. He blew his whistle.

A girl with asthma was the first to go down, felled by a boy with straight aim and a crooked nose. Others started getting picked off. With four balls in play, some of the kids were getting hit by more than one ball at once. The smell of dirty socks was quickly overpowered by the stench of drenched underarms.

B.B. and a tall, skinny kid, both armed with balls, squared off in a showdown. Phillip recognized the kid. His mom worked at the dodgeball factory. Why was he going after B.B.?

“Hey, rat,” the big kid said. “Here’s a piece of cheese for you.” He flung the dodgeball like a grenade. B.B. deflected it with the ball in her hands. Then she slammed her ball straight at the kid, tripping his right leg.

“You’re out,” Coach yelled.

Two more kids whose parents worked at the factory raced over to get a piece of B.B. She dodged the first ball with ease. The second nearly got her.

“Bring it on!” she shouted to the other team. And they did. One against one. Two against one. Three against one. Each time, she dodged their rounds and returned their fire. It only provided them more ammunition. Finally, it was four against one.

They stood barely behind their line: a twelve-year-old with a chip on his shoulder and a long scar across his chin;
his human-tank friend; a girl with thick arm muscles and stringy hair; and the boy with the crooked nose. They teasingly tossed their balls in the air, knowing they had her. Not even B.B. Tyson could handle a four-ball assault. She was tired, weakened. She needed to rest. B.B. turned to retreat but bumped into a kid hiding behind her. They crashed to the ground. The kid crawled backward in a crab walk. B.B. turned and looked across the line, chin up, chest out, waiting to feel the first strike.

“Wait!” Phillip yelled. He couldn’t bear to see B.B. get pummeled. He had to do something.

“Stop the game!” He raced down the bleachers and over to Coach. A shrill whistle froze the dodgeballers in place and gave B.B. a temporary reprieve.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Coach asked.

Phillip ripped the bandage from his finger. “It’s not hurt,” he said. “It was a lie.”

“You’re the strangest kid I’ve ever met,” said Coach.

“Am I in the game?” Phillip asked.

“You’re in,” he said.

B.B. was still draped like a rug on the floor, with the four gorillas ready to beat her. Phillip raced over

“Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded, but the look in her eyes said they were still in trouble. She got up and stood next to Phillip.

Coach’s whistle revived the action.

“Isn’t that cute,” the girl with thick arm muscles teased. “B.B.’s got a boyfriend. Bye-bye, boyfriend.”

She pitched the ball hard at Phillip’s head. He jumped up and caught it. Immediately, the crooked-nosed boy lobbed another ball at him. It headed straight for Phillip’s stomach.

He threw the first ball up in the air and caught the second ball. When the first ball began to come back down, he instinctively started juggling the two balls. He kept them high in the air like he had been taught. A trickle of sweat ran down Phillip’s forehead as he concentrated.

“Look out,” screamed B.B. as she dove in front of him and caught the third ball, fired by the human tank.

“Thanks,” said Phillip, still juggling. “Toss it here.” She tossed the third ball at him, and it was swallowed into the juggling mass.

Chip-and-scar boy held the fourth ball. He slammed it toward B.B.’s torso while she was watching Phillip. She turned to grab it as it was about to pelt her in the stomach. The force of the ball knocked her back, and she stumbled before getting her footing. She hoisted the fourth ball triumphantly in the air. Her teammates began cheering wildly.

Wrrrrrrrrrrrr!
Coach’s whistle pierced the air.

“That’s enough of that juggling nonsense,” he said. “Get those balls back into play.”

“There’s no rule against juggling,” said Shawn.

“That’s right,” another kid agreed. “You go, Cool-slaw.”

Coach blew his whistle, but Phillip did not stop. Coach’s face began to turn grayish-blue. Still, the whistle could not be heard above the cheers.

After Phillip got more height on the dodgeballs, he motioned for B.B. to toss in the last one. She glanced at her father’s angry face, then back at Phillip. She tossed the ball to Phillip and grinned. He didn’t stop juggling until the bell rang.

During his walk to the courthouse after school, Phillip kept replaying the scene in his mind. He had died and gone
to dodgeball heaven. That was the only explanation for what had occurred. When he got to the courthouse, Aunt Veola told him that his new glasses were ready and that they would be picking them up that night. Phillip went straight to the snack bar to tell Sam all that had happened.

“B.B.’s really changed. I don’t think she’s going to bully me again, and I don’t want to sue her anymore. Suing the dodgeball factory and the school is enough. I want to drop B.B. from the lawsuit.”

Sam didn’t agree.

“It’s not that simple,” he said.

“Why not?” Phillip asked. “Why can’t I drop B.B. from the lawsuit?”

“If you drop the assault charge against B.B. now, another bully will figure he can hit another kid and not have to worry. If you let one bully get away with something, you’re letting all bullies get away with it.”

Phillip could see his mother inside the gymnasium on the day of the Regional High School Championship game, her hedgehog-colored cheerleading ribbons drooping in limp ponytails. He pictured her trying to block out the shouts and jeers of the accusing crowd, and then fleeing in defeat.

Sam was right. The lawsuit wasn’t only about him and B.B. It was about kids everywhere standing up for themselves. He had to keep going, even against B.B.

“I understand,” said Phillip.

“I’m glad,” said Sam. “Because our hearing is set for Monday morning.”

Phillip dropped his root beer. The foaming brew splashed across the table and dripped onto the floor. Because they had asked the court for an injunction, the judge wanted to hear
the case right away. Sam explained a bunch of other legal stuff, too. As Phillip grabbed napkins and mopped up the mess, all he could think was that the hearing would be here in no time.

If he lost the case in court, the dodgeball bullies would be waiting for him and his friends. All his hard work would have been for nothing. The kids on the bleachers, Sam, Aunt Veola, Uncle Felix—even, somehow, his mom—he would let them all down. He would be a loser—the official laughingstock of the Unofficial Dodgeball Capital of the World.

P
ink lemonade was created accidentally by a circus vendor who used a bucket of water that another performer had washed her red tights in. Whenever someone is being careless because they’re rushing, circus performers say they’re “making pink lemonade.”

The morning of his hearing Phillip did not want to make pink lemonade. He took his time getting ready, loading his briefcase with legal books and papers. It was really a suitcase from the attic that looked like a briefcase but was bigger. Phillip couldn’t understand why lawyers paid extra to buy smaller bags.

He wore black pants and a white button-down shirt. A too-long necktie, which he had borrowed from Uncle Felix, was knotted clumsily around his thin neck. Since he didn’t own any dress shoes, he wore sneakers.

Phillip took so long getting ready, Aunt Veola left without him, and Uncle Felix had to drive him to the courthouse. Uncle Felix’s lime green Volkswagen beetle made a
putt-putt
sound as they chugged down the street. After the car passed the dodgeball factory, it began to sputter. In less than a block, the engine stalled.

“There must be a leak in my gas tank,” Uncle Felix said. “Don’t worry, there’s a gas station ahead, and it’s downhill from here.”

Oh no, thought Phillip. I can’t be late.

Uncle Felix put the car in neutral. Phillip got out and pushed. He had to lean his shoulder into it to get the car rolling while Uncle Felix steered it into Friendly’s Gas-’n-Go. A sign advertised the Special of the Month for November was a free dodgeball poster with each oil change.

An old man and woman in matching dirty blue overalls shuffled over. Phillip had seen them before snuggling together on the bench outside of the shop, waiting for customers. The woman washed the windshield. The old man reached for the gas nozzle

“Hey, Felix,” the old man said. “Coasting again, huh?” He flipped a switch and the meter on the pump began to run. The gas
fumes made Phillip’s nose tingle like he was going to sneeze. He hopped back into the passenger seat.

“You want I should fill out a credit-card slip?” asked the old man. “Or you paying cash?”

Uncle Felix squeezed forward and reached for his back pocket. “I must have left my wallet in my other pants.”

“Again?” the old man asked.

Phillip reached into the glove box and grabbed a white handkerchief. He unfolded it and gave Uncle Felix a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

“Where did this come from?” Uncle Felix asked.

“Aunt Veola hid it there just in case, because you’re always forgetting to put gas in the car,” Phillip said. “Now, can we hurry? I’ve got to get to court.”

“Don’t forget,” yelled the old man as they putt-putted away, “next month we give out a free ticket for the Annual Dodgeball World Series and Barbecue with every tune-up.”

Uncle Felix was already late for his new job at the airport, so he dropped off Phillip at the front steps of the courthouse. Phillip was strangely relieved they had run out of gas. After that, what else could go wrong?

Inside the courthouse, he got in line for the metal detector. This time, it felt different.

“Good morning, Phillip,” Aunt Veola said.

“Hello, Aunt Veola,” Phillip replied. He placed his lucky marble and a paper-clip chain into the plastic change box.

“You’ll have to go through this time,” she said, “since you’ll be going into a courtroom.”

Phillip dropped his briefcase onto the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector. It did not make a sound.

“You’re supposed to meet Sam in courtroom number two,” she told him. “I’ll be up to watch when this rush is over.”

Past the security area, Phillip noticed that the courthouse lobby looked especially crowded.

“Excuse me, pardon me,” he said, trying to get through.

“Hey, Phillip, over here,” he heard a familiar voice yell. It was Shawn O’Malley. “Wait up,” Shawn said. There was a man with him. The man wore a tweed sports jacket and held an electronic device. Close up, Phillip could see it was a tape recorder.

“Phillip,” Shawn said, a little out of breath. “This is my grandfather’s dentist’s brother. He’s a reporter for the
Hardingtown Star Tribune
. I told him you’d give him an interview.”