The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco (18 page)

“Look, kid,” said Ms. Jones. “You’re not going to win anyway. Two hundred and forty-nine dollars is better than nothing.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Terry, Mr. Dinkle’s other assistant. “Don’t get greedy. It’s better to have a piece of a donut than to have the whole donut hole.”

Phillip asked Coach, “Would we still have to play dodgeball every day in gym class?”

“Of course,” said Coach. “How else could we train for the dodgeball tournament?”

“Would you still try to cream me all the time?” he asked B.B.

She hesitated.

“Of course she would try to get you out,” said Coach. “She’s the best junior dodgeballer in Hardingtown.”

Phillip looked at Sam. He was as still as an acrobat waiting for his cue.

“Sam, what do you think I should do?”

“Why are you asking me?” Sam crossed his arms. “For that matter, why are you asking Mr. Dinkle or Mr. Tyson or B.B. what they think? Only you know what you’re willing to settle for.”

“You’re right,” Phillip said. “I do know.” He climbed onto a chair.

“Here is what I want,” Phillip said. “Mr. Nerp, I want you to have your factory make your dodgeballs softer so they won’t hurt kids when they get hit.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Mr. Nerp.

“B.B., I want you to promise you won’t try to hurt anyone smaller than you, even when you’re really mad. And Coach, I want you to allow optional sports during gym class. Safe sports for kids who don’t want to spend their childhoods as human targets.”

“You’re way out of line, Stanislaw,” said Coach.

“Finally, Mr. Dinkle, I want you to apologize to my dad for tricking him into coming here.”

“Who do you think you are, making such demands?”
asked Mr. Dinkle. He glared at Phillip with flaming dodgeball eyes.

“Who do I think I am?” Phillip asked himself out loud. He hesitated, wondering how he could make them understand.

“Nobody special,” he said finally. He smoothed down the tuft of red hair that stuck up on the back of his head and took a deep breath. “I am Phillip Edward Stanislaw. Son of Leo Laugh-a-Lot and Matilda the Fat Lady, nephew of Veola the security guard and Felix the cargo loader. I can scoop poop almost faster than an elephant can make it and can juggle four dodgeballs, maybe five, but I haven’t tried that yet. I’m just a regular kid. But even a regular kid knows it’s wrong to let big kids hurt little kids, and somebody’s got to do something about it.” His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back up.

“You’re insane,” said Coach. He grabbed B.B. by the arm and stormed out of the room. Mr. Nerp nodded in agreement. “Nothing. That’s what you’ll be getting. Not a single penny. We are going to beat your pants off in court.”

“Pants?” said Leo. “What a great idea.” He searched the pockets of his baggy trousers, pulled out a unicycle horn, and chased Mr. Dinkle and the others out of the room with rude honking sounds.

When only he and Sam were left, Phillip realized his right hand was pointed in the air like the Statue of Liberty. He scampered down from the chair, thinking about the $249 he could have had if he had been willing to drop the lawsuit.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked.

“I’d rather be a loser than a quitter,” said Phillip.

“Keep your chin up,” Sam said. “You haven’t lost yet.”

A
circus clown named Joseph was so successful that it became popular to call all clowns Joey. Phillip wondered, if he lost his lawsuit, would people start to call all losers Phillip?

“I’m going to the snack bar to get a bite,” said Sam. “Want to come?” When his lawsuit had begun, Phillip had hungered for justice. Now he would be happy with a ham sandwich.

“No. Thanks,” said Phillip, ignoring his grumbling stomach. He needed to use the time to think of a way to get the settlement he wanted. But how? After Sam left, Phillip went to the courtroom and sat in Judge Monn’s chair. He tried to look at things like a judge would. Then he went over and sat in Mr. Dinkle’s chair and then in Mr. Nerp’s chair.

“Your mom would take away my rubber chicken if she found out I let you skip a meal.”

Phillip swung around in the chair. His dad was holding a take-out box from the snack bar. In it was a dodgeballburger, a root beer, a bag of chips, and two packets of ketchup. Leo set it on the defendants’ table and scratched a spot on his huge red nose.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Hold your horses,” said Leo. He strained his face, reached in his giant trouser pocket, and pulled out a bag of cotton candy.

“It got a little smashed when I sat on it while I was in the exhibit box.”

Phillip opened the bag and breathed in the memories. He picked off a piece of the pink fluff and tasted it. It melted on his tongue.

“Veola filled me in on how all this lawsuit stuff got started,” said Leo.

“Coach says I’m insane for trying to stop dodgeball.”

“If I thought you were crazy,” said Leo, “I would have sent you to clown school.” He hit a button on his neck strap and his bow tie spun. “Oops, what time is it?” Leo checked the clock. “I’ve got to call your mom and let her know what’s going on.” He rushed for the door. “Bump a nose,” he called on his way out.

Phillip wished his dad had stayed longer. He began thinking about how much he missed his mom. He really did love his parents. No matter how old you get, he thought, there are times when you could use a hug from your mom or dad. This was one of those times.

The ticking of the wall clock was the only sound in the room. It was nearly 1:15 already. They would be back soon, and he still hadn’t figured out how to get the settlement he wanted.

Phillip had read about old-fashioned ways used to determine who won a court case. Using the “trial by morsel” method, the accused would be forced to swallow a chunk of cheese. If it got stuck in his throat and he died, he lost. When
Phillip first read about this, he found it barbaric. But even choking on mold now seemed more pleasant than facing off with Mr. Dinkle again.

Phillip wandered over to a large window and looked down. The courtroom was on the second floor, but there were no obstructions and he had a clear view to the street below. A news crew was set up off to the side of the courthouse steps, probably waiting to talk to the parties as they came back from lunch recess. The kids from his school were sitting on the steps, still finishing their brown-bag lunches. Judge Monn was talking to one of Phillip’s teachers.

A telephone booth was on the sidewalk across from the courthouse. Phillip could see a brightly clothed person inside. He figured it was probably his dad calling his mom.

Mr. Dinkle and Mr. Nerp were walking past the phone booth, with Coach, B.B., and Mr. Dinkle’s assistants a few yards behind them. Vice-principal Race was there, too. The news anchor and cameraman sped over to them. Mr. Dinkle appeared to be giving a speech. He had one arm around Mr. Nerp’s shoulder and the other around Mr. Race’s shoulder. He wore a confident smile. As he watched them, it occurred to Phillip that they had probably never been hit by dodgeballs in their lives. He pictured the men as young boys out in the woods hunting bunnies with double-barreled guns.

“Phillip, are you still here?” Sam’s voice brought Phillip back to reality.

“I’m over at the window.”

“Don’t jump,” Sam joked. Phillip turned around and rolled his eyes. He swatted at what sounded like a nearby fly.

“What is that?” Sam asked.

“What is what?”

“That sound,” said Sam. Phillip swatted again at the buzzing. Then he realized there was no fly.

“It sounds like an airplane,” said Sam. “But there’s something more to it.” Phillip pressed his face against the window and looked as high up as he could. He saw a small cargo plane overhead. It was flying low, like it had recently taken off. The airplane’s cargo door was flapping in the wind.

“It’s a plane,” said Phillip. “But it looks like something is falling out of it.” He strained to see what it was. It looked like bits of confetti. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of pieces of…

“What is it?” asked Sam.

“It looks like…dodgeballs.”

“Dodgeballs? Falling out of an airplane? Are you serious?”

Phillip looked down at the crowd of people in front of the courthouse. “They’re gonna get creamed,” he yelled. “I’ve got to warn them.” He tried frantically to open the window. “It’s stuck tight.”

“I’ll get the window,” said Sam as he felt for the wall. “You get down there and get those people out of the way.”

Phillip had never felt his feet fly before. They seemed to take off before his brain even had time to send the message. He took the steps three at a time, bounding like a hurdle racer, then zipped through the corridor. This was impossible. It couldn’t be happening. Dodgeballs don’t fall out of the sky. As he pushed through the heavy glass doors, he could hear Sam’s deep voice thunder through the open window.

“Look out belooooowwwwwww!”

A small girl pointed skyward as the rubber cannonballs plummeted toward the earth. Phillip cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Run for your lives!” he shouted, but his words were swallowed by the sounds of screaming men, women, and children already bolting for cover.

Soda cans, backpacks, and briefcases dropped like sweat. Panicked bodies sprinted up the courthouse steps to the safety of a canopy leading to the entry doors. The rush of terrified schoolchildren nearly knocked Phillip over. It was all he could do to keep from being pushed back into the courthouse by the fleeing crowd.

Like the first few kernels in a bag of microwave popcorn, balls began to explode against the streets and buildings. Below the steps, the television cameraman continued to film. A dodgeball rewarded him for his arrogance with a wham in the derriere that sent him and his camera flying in different directions. The ball ricocheted off a mailbox and returned. It hit the camera dead center, as if aiming, and destroyed the evidence of its bad behavior.

Judge Monn, who was close to the top of the steps, began running toward the injured cameraman. A screamer nearly got her, then another, forcing her to flee back up the steps and dive for the relative safety of the canopy. Phillip fought his way through the current of rushing children. He caught a glimpse of B.B., trapped in an open area. She and Coach, along with Mr. Terry and Ms. Jones, had stopped to help the fallen cameraman. There was nowhere for them to go and no time to get there.

Suddenly, the door to the phone booth flew open, and Leo jumped out. Phillip wanted to yell for him to stay inside, but deafening thuds and crashes would have made it futile.

Mr. Dinkle had somehow made it past the airborne land mines and across the street. He was fleeing up the steps,
holding his arm. Mr. Nerp was close behind. As Mr. Dinkle got near the top, a ball slammed into his left leg. His wounded howl rose above the chaos. Judge Monn ran out and grabbed him by his good arm and began pulling him to safety. Phillip helped her pull. Mr. Dinkle slid up the last of the steps on his belly.

It was hard to see through the rain of dodgeballs. The merciless spheres were hitting the ground and ricocheting off buildings from every conceivable angle. Phillip ducked as a ball sailed straight for him. With a flagrant lack of judicial decorum, the shameless ball creamed Judge Monn in the face. She dropped to the ground.

Aunt Veola and another security guard appeared with a first-aid kit and helped Judge Monn sit up. With gloved hands, Aunt Veola pulled out some thick gauze and pressed it against the judge’s head.

“Help me!” Mr. Nerp sobbed as he crawled up the steps. Aunt Veola lifted Judge Monn’s hand to make her hold the gauze to her head.

“Hold this here,” she instructed the judge. She and the other guard raced to help Mr. Nerp.

Judge Monn began to teeter backward. Her pupils rolled behind her eyelids. Phillip slipped his lap under her head just as it was about to meet the concrete and applied pressure to her wound. As he strained to see if B.B. had made it to safety, he witnessed something amazing.

His dad, darting between balls as only a well-trained circus clown can, was helping a stunned Mr. Race into the safety of the phone booth. In a flash of bright-colored clothing, Leo ran over to Coach, who had the cameraman slung over his broad shoulder, and pushed them into the booth,
too. One by one, he plucked the remaining people from danger—B.B., Mr. Terry, Ms. Jones—and squashed them into the burgeoning booth. Then he expertly pressed himself into the already overstuffed space and, using all of the rushing adrenaline inside him, yanked the door shut. Completely shut.

The balls were coming down with full force now, going every which way, like elbow macaroni boiling in a pot on the stove. Phillip leaned his body over the judge to give her as much cover as possible and repeated a prayer that Bartholomew the Giant had taught him. Judge Monn, still only semiconscious, began mumbling along.

When the roar of impacting balls finally subsided, Phillip looked up. The glass was covered with spiderweb cracks, but the phone booth was still standing. Slowly, the door cracked open and seven dazed occupants spilled out.

The judge moaned.

“What happened?” she asked Phillip.