Operation do over, p.8
Operation Do-Over, page 8
“It’s okay, man,” I whisper. “I got this.”
When the bell rings and I’m on my way to first period, Dominic and Miggy come up on either side of me.
“Got to hand it to you, Spaceman,” Miggy says, shaking his head. “Here we were, trying to figure out how to stomp you into baby powder without getting in trouble, and you come up with the perfect way to make it legal.”
“Prepare to be a real spaceman,” Dominic advises darkly. “First tackling drill, you’re going to the moon.”
“No, he’s not!” Clarisse tells him. “Mason’s going to wipe up the field with you guys!”
Dominic and Miggy find that so hilarious that they cackle all the way to first period.
The person who isn’t laughing is Ty. All day, every time he looks at me, I see a completely different emotion: anger, disbelief, confusion, even pity. At lunch, he gives me his extra taco, and I know for a fact that Ty loves tacos more than he loves his own mother.
“Will you cut it out?” I snap at him. “It’s cafeteria food, not my last meal.”
He regards me with sad eyes worthy of Rufus.
“Listen,” I try to explain, “we’ve been in the Pasco schools for a long time. And everything we do is always the same kind of stuff. Science fair, astronomy club, Academic Olympics.”
“What’s wrong with that?” he challenges.
“Nothing. But what respect do we ever get for it? Insults on our foreheads and a mouthful of hydrogen peroxide. What kind of life is that?”
“The live kind,” he replies readily. “Which is more than you’re going to have when the Dominator gets through with you at tryouts.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “I’m probably going to get stomped. But what if I’ve got kind of a knack for it? You heard Miggy when I hit Dominic this morning. He called it ‘serious linebacker stuff.’ A linebacker is a football player, right?”
Clarisse approaches our table, tray in hand, but Ty tries to scowl her away.
“Have a seat, Clarisse,” I say pointedly, and she slips into the bench beside Ty.
“Listen, man,” he goes on as if she wasn’t even there, “I know we always do everything together, but this time you’re on your own. This isn’t like Halo, where if you get killed, you respawn. Once a walnut gets cracked, you can’t put it back together again. Sorry, Mason. I’m out.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to do it with me,” I say honestly. “It’s just something I have to try.”
“Well, I think it’s great,” Clarisse puts in. “I bet you’ll get a home run. No, wait—football is touchdowns, right?”
Ty shakes his head at me. “Are you the same kid I’ve been best friends with, like, forever?”
I honestly don’t have an answer for that. Probably something like yes and no.
At three thirty, when I present myself at the field house, Coach Gallo doesn’t recognize me. Why would he? I’ve never played on any team, and in PE class, I make it my business to be as unnoticeable as possible. Apparently, I’ve succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.
“Do I know you, kid?” he asks, frowning. “How long have you been at this school?”
“I’m a linebacker,” I tell him. “I’m really good at—backing lines.”
He looks me up and down. “We’ll see about that.”
I’m half expecting to be given a uniform and pads and be told to go tackle Dominic again—which is probably a lot harder when he knows you’re coming. But that’s not what happens. Conditioning is everything, Coach explains. So we put on shorts and sneakers and run around the track—twelve times.
On lap one, I’m surprised to see Ty among the handful of spectators on the bleachers.
“Thanks for coming to support me,” I call up to him.
“It’s not support,” he shoots back. “Someone needs to be here to call your dad when it’s time to pick up your dead body.”
I laugh appreciatively. I’m already a quarter lap behind the lead runners, and they’re only half a lap in. But I’m confident I can make the team. This is middle school. Everybody makes the team.
“Pick up the pace, new kid!” Coach Gallo hollers.
I thought I was picking up the pace.
I won’t try to sugarcoat it. I don’t mind running, but twelve laps is cruel and unusual punishment. I’m only on lap three when Dominic and Miggy overtake me from behind. Dominic makes sure to kick my heel out from under me, and I make a five-point landing on knees, elbows, and nose.
“Foul! Where’s the flag, ref?” comes a high-pitched voice from the bleachers. It’s Clarisse, who’s settled herself in the stands next to Ty. “That’s two minutes in the penalty box!” She’s obviously not a sports fan, so this must be her version of loyalty. It means a lot to a guy lying flat on his face on a track.
Coach Gallo misses Dominic’s cheap shot. He hears Clarisse yelling and notices the whole team stepping over me like I’m a human hurdle. Bleeding from all five contact points, I pick myself up off the track, ready to slink to the field house and give up my spot on the team.
But then Miggy’s mocking voice reaches me: “Check it out! Spaceman crash-landed!”
That stiffens my spine and starts my legs pumping again. I don’t remember how I was at twelve, but seventeen-year-old Mason Rolle has a much higher pain threshold and a much greater storehouse of cussedness. I don’t care if my life’s supply of blood drains out right here on this track. I am not giving those oafs the satisfaction of making me quit.
Miggy and a couple of the other faster guys get done when I’m still on lap seven. Pretty soon, everyone else is finished, and I’m the center of attention, all alone on the track.
Coach Gallo steps out in front of me. “Okay, kid. That’s enough.”
When I slow to a walk, it’s all I can do to stay upright. It might be that the movement of my legs was the only thing keeping me from collapsing.
He goes on. “Football requires a lot of toughness and stamina. Maybe it’s not for you.”
I want to protest, but I don’t have the breath. So I shake my head vigorously.
“Look at yourself,” he adds. “You’re way behind, you’re sucking air, you’re bleeding all over my track. Do both of us a favor and go home.”
I start running again—and this time it feels a little easier than before. Coach shrugs and leads the others in some throwing and catching drills. I ignore them. Nine laps. Ten. Then eleven.
“Come on, Mason!” Clarisse shrieks from the stands.
Ty puts his hands over his ears.
As I come around into the final straightaway of lap twelve, the rest of the team is still throwing and catching, but I can somehow tell that every eye is on me. Dropped and bobbled balls skitter across the turf. Everybody wants to see if I’m going to make it.
I’m totally gassed. My chest is on fire. Every muscle I own is screaming at me to stop. When I stagger across the finish line, I get a very sarcastic ovation, mixed with a lot of raspberries.
“Dial it back, you guys!” Coach Gallo orders. “You think your effort today was any better than his?”
I hear this through the roaring in my ears. The others jog off to the locker room, but I just stand there, bent double, heaving.
“You alive, new kid?” Coach calls to me.
I can’t muster the air for a yes, so I wave.
He nods as if a major decision has been made. “See you tomorrow.”
15
Twelve Years Old
SEPTEMBER 25
I make the football team, not that this is a big surprise, since there are no cuts. I’m officially a Pasco Panther—number zero, which might be an assessment of my value to the squad. I don’t have a position yet, unless you count punching bag, but I checked, and that’s not a real football thing.
I’m the worst player by far—the weakest, the slowest, with the worst hands and no natural ability. Yet for some reason, I get the feeling that Coach Gallo kind of likes having me around. I’m the look-at guy. Every time a player gripes about anything at practice, Coach says, “Look at Rolle—he’s ten times more exhausted than you, and he’s not complaining!” Or, “Look at Rolle—he just got clobbered and he’s right back on his feet!” Or, “Look at Rolle—he’s bleeding way more than you, and he doesn’t need a break!”
To be honest, I wish the coach would keep quiet about what an iron man he thinks I am, because the other players are starting to get pretty sick of hearing about it.
“Look at Spaceman, he never complains,” the Dominator mimics savagely.
“His head got torn clean off, but he doesn’t need a time-out,” Miggy adds.
They get their revenge on me during tackling drill. Every time Dominic hits me, it’s the equivalent of being run over by a freight train. I know I knocked him down that one morning, but he really must have been off-balance back then. Blocking Dominic is like blocking a brick wall—a spring-loaded one that falls over on you the second you bounce off. But it isn’t just the Dominator. Miggy takes me down pretty hard too. And none of the other players show much mercy to look-at guy. I want to explain that it isn’t my fault Coach keeps holding me up as an example. The problem is I’ve usually got the wind knocked out of me.
So the punishment continues.
The only sympathy I get comes from Ty, who watches from the bleachers almost every day. He doesn’t understand why I’m doing this, but I have to give him credit. He’s got my back a million percent. Even worse than the torture of watching me get killed is the fact that Clarisse sometimes joins him. Those two have a love-hate relationship, minus the love. It irritates him when she cheers “Defense!” when I’m on offense, or “Crush him, Mason! Show him who’s boss!” As for me, I’m not a fan of anyone who calls attention to who the boss isn’t—and who’s crushing who. And that’s pretty obvious when I’m the guy who’s always on the bottom of the pile.
We finish each workout with our round-robin blocking competition. That’s when my teammates send me to the locker room with a little extra pain. This time I catch the very worst of it. Dominic lines me up and plants his shoulder in my sternum. If I concentrate, the sound of that hit still reverberates in my ears.
I lie there, staring at the clouds, while the others head for the field house, exchanging high fives. I’m surprised when a hand is extended into my field of vision. It grabs me by the wrist and hauls me to my feet. I find myself standing toe to toe with Miggy.
I’m instantly on the alert. What’s this about? Is he planning to finish the job his partner in crime started?
He regards me critically. “You’re okay, Spaceman.”
I have absolutely no idea what to make of that. Is it a medical report—like to see if Dominic is off the hook for murder?
I almost ask. But at that moment, Ty approaches, so Miggy turns his back on us and jogs off after the team.
“Clarisse says you’re going too easy on these guys,” Ty informs me with a disgusted look on his face.
“Give the girl a break,” I retort. “She’s the only fan I’ve got.”
“You don’t need fans; you need ambulance attendants.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll survive long enough to make it to high school.” I have firsthand info on that one.
Ty waits while I change out of my uniform, and the two of us head for home. It’s a rare thing to have a buddy who sticks by you even when he’s against what you’re doing, I reflect with a lump in my throat.
We’re about to step off school property when I spot my father’s car parked at the curb.
Dad waves out the window. “Get in, guys. I’ll run you home.”
It’s only a two-minute ride, but I’m grateful for it, because every bone in my body aches. We drop Ty off first and then pull into our own driveway.
Dad grins as I limp into the house. “Never thought I’d be picking my son up from football practice. Your Nobel Prize ceremony, maybe . . .”
“I’m expanding my horizons,” I explain.
“Good idea. I’m proud of you. It’s kind of unexpected, that’s all. When I think of a linebacker, I picture your sister, not you.”
“She’s tough,” I agree. In the future, high school freshman Serena is emerging as the queen bee of her class. But I’d forgotten that was already well underway in the palate-expander days of fourth grade.
I reach down and pick up the front page of the newspaper, which is leaning semifolded against our famous elephant-leg umbrella stand. “Quick—let’s put the paper back in order before Mom gets home.”
“Yeah, eventually,” he says vaguely, stepping out of his loafers.
“Dad,” I remind him, “Mom freaks when the paper is all over the place. You know she’s always complaining about . . .” My voice trails off. Suddenly, I can’t remember if my mother’s complaints have already happened, or if they start at some point between now and the divorce.
“I’ll do it,” he promises, “as soon as I’m finished making these calls.” And he disappears down to his basement office, leaving his shoes in the middle of the hall—another one of Mom’s regular gripes. I can’t blame her for that one. Serena once broke her wrist falling over a pair of Dad’s loafers. Or maybe she will. I’m not sure if it’s happened yet.
So I put away the shoes, and I hunt up the various pieces of newspaper Dad left scattered all over the house while drinking his coffee and getting ready for work this morning. I leave the paper on the kitchen counter. It’s all there, except the classified ads, which got drooled on by Rufus. Maybe Dad would get around to it, but chances are he wouldn’t. He’s a pretty flaky guy and my mother is a neat freak.
In the past couple of weeks, the tension between them has been growing. Or maybe I’m just oversensitive because I know where it all ends up.
In divorce court.
16
Twelve Years Old
SEPTEMBER 27
I’ve been twelve again for more than two weeks, and I’m starting to worry that I’m stuck here. The longer I spend as my seventh-grade self, the more it feels like my real life.
Oh, sure, I remember being older. I haven’t forgotten my teenage years, my parents’ divorce, the day Rufus got hit by that Roto-Rooter truck. And how could I ever block out that catastrophe in the stairwell that sent Mrs. Nekomis tumbling and got me expelled? Or the car accident that—
That did what? Killed me? Scrambled my brains and made me hallucinate? Knocked me five years back in time?
I don’t think I’m dead anymore. Whatever this is, it’s been going on way too long to be my final fever dream before I kick the bucket. It doesn’t feel like death; it feels like life—my life.
I’m even getting used to this smaller, younger body. It makes sense—it’s me, after all, not some random stranger. But I no longer hop out of bed and nearly twist an ankle because my legs should be longer. I’ve stopped feeling my cheek to see if I need a shave, only to find it smooth. I don’t reach for the driver’s door of the Volkswagen anymore. I’m controlling my natural impulse to get behind the wheel and pull away. Twelve-year-olds don’t do that.
I guess what I mean is I’m rolling with it. Partly because what choice do I have? If I tell anybody what’s really going on, they’ll lock me in a padded room. But partly because it’s not a bad deal. I’ve got both parents. I’ve got my best friend. I’ve got my dog. I’m not expelled. I’m doing okay here. And in the meantime, I’ll just keep my eyes open for a clue to what’s going on and how I can set things back to normal.
I’m even getting a little bit cocky about my new old life. Of all the kids at Pasco Middle School, I’m the only one working on round two. Face it, if you’re given a second shot at something, you’re a lot more likely to get it right. I’m not saying I’m suddenly popular—or even borderline acceptable. I get zero percent cred for being on the football team. Dominic and Miggy continue to devote their lives to picking on me. I’m still Spaceman. But I have a kind of confidence too—the confidence of knowing that nothing that happens can possibly catch me off guard.
“We have a new student in our homeroom,” Ms. Alexander announces. “Class, this is Ava Petrakis, who comes to us from New York City. Let’s all do our best to make her feel welcome.”
My neck whips around so fast that I’m amazed my head doesn’t snap off and roll across the floor. It’s her! Ava! I whiplash in the opposite direction and check the calendar. September twenty-seventh—that was the day Ava came! It’s happening again!
Ty leans over to cast me a meaningful look, but this time I don’t meet his eyes. Ava—the same silky auburn hair, the same intelligent, lively blue-green eyes and heart-shaped face. She looks a lot younger than she did the last time I saw her in the high school parking lot in senior year, but it’s definitely the same girl.
Just when you think you’ve got seventh grade nailed, along comes life to throw you a curve. It’s my own fault. How could I have forgotten something so earthshaking? Ava showed up on September twenty-seventh last time, and here she is again, right on schedule.
“How many times did you get mugged in New York?” Miggy pipes up.
It’s past my lips before I even know what I’m going to say. “I’ll bet you just have to put out a vibe that you don’t want to be messed with, and nobody messes with you.”
Ava regards me in surprise. “I was going to say almost that exact thing.” Then, without being prompted by the teacher, she carries her backpack over to our table and sits down next to me. “This seat taken?”
That’s when it hits me: The disaster of my seventeen-year-old life—ninety percent of the bad things that happened were set in motion on the night of Harvest Festival, when I broke the treaty with Ty by kissing Ava under the Tilt-A-Whirl. The same Ava who I’m meeting for the first time right now! It’s important that I get this relationship off on the wrong foot!
“You have to move!” I blurt.
“Why?” Ty goggles at me. “Nobody sits there!”
