The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco (9 page)

Crack!
The left earpiece snapped off.

“Or was it a matter of holding the pliers while you twist back with the frames?”

Uncle Felix used a piece of red electrical tape to reattach the earpiece. He forced the plastic lenses back into the mangled frames and carefully set the glasses on Phillip’s nose.

Plop!
The right lens fell out.

Uncle Felix put the right lens back in and used the electrical tape to secure it to the metal of the frame. When he placed them back on Phillip’s nose, the only place to see through was a peephole in the middle.

“You’ve got more red tape here than city hall,” said the lady at the optical shop as she unwrapped Uncle Felix’s handiwork to evaluate the damage. “Better look for a new pair of frames. These are beyond repair. We’ll have to replace the lenses, too.”

When she gave them a price for the new glasses, Aunt Veola exclaimed, “Two hundred and forty-nine dollars! You can buy a lawn mower for two hundred and forty-nine dollars.”

“True,” said the optical lady, “but he won’t be able to see a blackboard with a lawn mower on his nose.” Aunt Veola reached for her checkbook.

“Do I have to pay it all up front?” she asked.

“I’ll need at least fifty dollars down,” said the lady.

Phillip squirmed. He wished he could tell Aunt Veola not to bother, that he could do without his glasses. The optical lady began filling out a form.

“I’ll find a way to pay you back,” Phillip told Aunt Veola. “I promise I will.” It didn’t seem fair that Aunt Veola had to pay for his new glasses because B.B. Tyson broke his old pair. On purpose.

The optical lady finished the paperwork and said, “It will take three or four weeks to get them.”

Phillip was as disappointed as a ticket holder to a canceled show. He picked up the broken glasses and began rewrapping them.

The next day at school, he tried to hunch slightly and walk with his head toward the wall. But it was hopeless.

“Nice look, Coleslaw,” teased a boy.

“You should have tried the back block,” said a girl.

B.B. and Carmen spotted him going into science class. “You look like a clown,” said Carmen. “Why don’t you go back to the circus?”

“Beat it,” B.B. told Carmen. “I want to talk to him alone.” As Carmen slithered off, Phillip felt a shudder run through him.

“It’s about your glasses, Coleslaw. I—”

“What’s going on?” asked Coach, who was suddenly behind them.

“Nothing, Daddy,” said B.B.

“Then you’d better get to class,” he said.

In science class, Phillip kept hearing B.B.’s friend telling him to go back to the circus. Miss Castapio was talking about the Periodic Table of Elements, but Phillip wasn’t paying attention. Lulled by her hypnotic voice, his mind wandered back to his circus days.

“Mr. Stanislaw,” called a woman’s voice. “I’m talking to you, Mr. Stanislaw.” It was Miss Castapio.

Phillip shook his head to bring himself back. The kids laughed.

“Didn’t you hear the message on the loudspeaker?” she said. “You’re wanted in the vice-principal’s office.”

I
t’s difficult for a human cannonball to keep his cool while waiting to get blasted over a crowd of spectators. The temperature is hotter when you’re crammed inside a circus cannon.

The waiting area outside Hardingtown Middle School’s vice-principal’s office had the reverse problem—it was too cold. The students said that the vice-principal, Mr. Race, kept it that way on purpose because it had the effect of slowing down a student’s body. Many an angry hothead had been reduced to a shivering pile of goose bumps by the time it was his or her turn to go in. Legend had it that a particularly troublesome student had to wait so long he got frostbite and transferred to another school district. Phillip cupped his hands and blew into them.

The walls outside the vice-principal’s office were concrete block painted an odd yellow, like brown mustard. On one wall, a poster said:
THE PRINCI
P
AL IS YOUR PAL
. Phillip sat on his hands to keep them warm. As the dismissal bell rang, he thought about the sweatshirt that was hanging in his locker. After twenty minutes passed, the vice-principal’s secretary appeared.

“You can go wait in his office,” she said. “He’ll be right in.”

The vice-principal’s office was as clean as a knife-thrower’s blade. Phillip sat in one of the stiff vinyl chairs in front of the metal desk. On the desk was an
IN
box and an
OUT
box, both empty. On his teachers’ desks, Phillip had noticed brightly colored knickknacks. There was nothing bright on the vice-principal’s desk. It was as if vibrant colors were banned from his office, replaced by creams and grays and browns, colors that wouldn’t cause a commotion. That’s what the secretary had told Phillip that the vice-principal wanted to see him about—causing a commotion.

Mr. Race blew by him and plopped into his swiveling seat. The musky, aftershave-scented breeze made the flesh stand up on the back of Phillip’s neck. Mr. Race wore shiny braces on his not quite perfect teeth. His medium brown hair was parted down the middle with such accuracy that Phillip imagined there were exactly the same number of hairs on each side of his head. Mr. Race was always in a hurry. His name suited him.

Mr. Race opened a thin folder that was on his desk.

“Phillip Edward Stanislaw. Grade six,” he read.

While Mr. Race read from his school file, Phillip stared at the collection of antique handcuffs in the display case behind the desk. There was also a small dodgeball trophy. The gold plate on it said:
SECOND PLACE
.

A knock rattled the door.

“She’s here,” said his secretary, pushing the door open.

Phillip turned and saw Aunt Veola in her courthouse-guard uniform. She removed a fresh handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her hand with it.

“Thank you for coming, Veola,” said Mr. Race as they shook hands. Aunt Veola discreetly wiped her hand again and sat next to Phillip.

“We are both busy people, Veola. I hope you don’t mind if I get straight to it.”

“No need for dawdling,” she agreed.

“We are suspending your nephew,” Mr. Race said. “We have a rule against circulating petitions without the approval of student council. He violated that rule.” Aunt Veola looked at Phillip, who sat wide-eyed and speechless.

“I didn’t know,” Phillip said.

Mr. Race opened a desk drawer and removed a petition form. He flipped it over and read out loud, “‘All petitions must be approved by student council before they may be circulated.’”

“Now, Veola,” continued Mr. Race. “You’re a law-abiding citizen, so you understand that we can’t allow students to break our rules without punishment.”

“They have to obey the rules,” Aunt Veola agreed. “But suspension—even for a short time—isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“A four-day out-of-school suspension will give the boy a chance to think about his transgression.”

“You’re not going extra hard on him because of what happened between you and my sister when you were in school together?”

“Of course not,” insisted Mr. Race.

“Because it wouldn’t be right to punish him just because he’s Matilda’s son.”

Phillip wondered what they were talking about.

Mr. Race smiled, and a glint of light reflected off his
braces. “I might take a different approach if this were Phillip’s first offense,” he continued, “but there have been others.”

“Others?” asked Aunt Veola.

“He’s left school early without permission on two occasions. The first time was an early morning; he was spotted in the hallway but failed to report to homeroom. The second time, he asked to go to the bathroom and never returned to class. Of course there are also complaints about his bad dodgeball attitude. I’m sure you understand how important school spirit is.”

“He’s had a hard time adjusting,” Aunt Veola said weakly.

“Attacking dodgeball is not my idea of trying to adjust.” Mr. Race looked over at Phillip. “If you really want to adjust, start with your attitude.”

“What’s the difference?” Phillip replied. “I’ll never fit in.”

They did not discuss the point further. Phillip collected his schoolbooks and loaded them into Aunt Veola’s car. He held his feelings in for as long as he could. By the time they were driving away from the school, he was filled to the brim and began to overflow.

“I’m no good at anything,” he said. “When I was with the circus, I wasn’t brave enough to walk on hot coals, patient enough to train a bear to dance, or graceful enough to stand on a horse. I thought if I lived like a regular kid, I would find a place where I belong. But things are no better here.”

Phillip sighed. “I’m not strong enough to be an athlete. I’m not rich enough to be a snob. Even the nerds don’t want me because I’m not nerdy enough.”

“It takes all types in this world,” said Aunt Veola. “Not
everyone is an athlete or a snob or a nerd. Just look at your father, and he’s a very successful clown.”

“But clowning comes easy to him. He’s always been a clown.”

“Is that what you think?” Aunt Veola pulled over to the side of the road, waited for traffic, and made a U-turn. Phillip didn’t care. Nothing seemed to matter.

The sedan didn’t stop until the scenery had turned to countryside. They pulled into the parking lot of a run-down country diner. Phillip followed Aunt Veola to a pickup window. She ordered two hot chocolates with extra whipped cream and put her change in a tin box on the counter for donations to the Dodgeball Museum.

Aunt Veola wiped her cup with a paper napkin. They took the cups to a large pond and watched a family of ducks diving for dinner. October leaves were blowing in swirling patterns. Aunt Veola spread a napkin on a wooden bench, where they sipped their rich, soothing drinks.

“I used to fish here with your mother when we were girls. I would catch them. She would eat them.”

Phillip tried to imagine Aunt Veola as a young girl with a fishing rod in her hand and a can of disinfectant in her pocket to clean the hook between worms.

“After your mother joined the circus,” she said, “I stopped fishing. I sold my rod and reel the day of her wedding. I knew she would never move back after she became one of the Stupendous Stanislaws.”

Phillip listened with interest. He sipped his hot chocolate slowly, letting it clear a warm path down his throat.

“You don’t know much about your father’s family history. Do you?” she asked.

Phillip shook his head.

“Your great-grandparents on your father’s side of the family were turnip farmers. They were sensible people, hoping to raise your grandfather to be a sensible man. They taught him that ‘the early bird catches the worm’ and ‘a penny saved is a penny earned.’ They took him to turnip-farming conventions and bought him books about crop rotation and soil conditions.

“One day your grandfather was riding in the back of the truck on the way to market with a load of turnips. They hit a bump in the road, and your grandfather fell off the turnip truck. In the distance, he saw a circus tent. It was your grandfather’s eighteenth birthday. He looked at his parents’ turnip truck rumbling down the dusty road. He looked at the colorful tent. Your grandfather got the last ticket for the afternoon show. There he fell in love at first sight with the lion tamer’s daughter.”

Phillip guessed, “Grandma Maybell?”

“That’s right,” said Aunt Veola. “He joined the circus, and they got married. Your grandfather became one of the greatest lion tamers in circus history. Then your father was born. They named him after the fiercest lion in the act.”

“Leo Laugh-a-Lot?” asked Phillip.

“Back then,” Aunt Veola explained, “his name was Leo the Ferocious. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to be a great lion tamer like his father.”

Phillip asked, “Why didn’t he?”

“It turned out he was allergic. His sneezing and wheezing got so bad that one day, when he was eleven, his parents sent him to live with relatives in Arizona.”

“I didn’t know,” said Phillip.

“It’s not something he talks about. The fact is, he was miserable. The circus was in his blood. When he turned eighteen, he came back and took up clowning.”

“What happened to his allergies?”

“He had outgrown them,” she said. “The day he went back, he met your mother, who had joined the circus the year before. She was juggling flaming arrows. They fell in love and got married. Then you came along. They were so happy. Your father swore he would be a clown forever, and he would never leave the circus again.”

Phillip looked down at his half-full cup of hot chocolate. The steam was gone, but it still tasted good.

“We each have a place in this world,” Aunt Veola said. “Someday, you’ll find out where you belong. Do you understand?”

Phillip nodded.

“Until that day comes,” she added, “you need to stay out of trouble.”