The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco (4 page)

The car jerked to a stop.

“Dodgeball is Hardingtown, and Hardingtown is dodgeball,” Aunt Veola declared. Phillip gave her the same blank expression he used to give his dad when he told a new joke. A car began blowing its horn, and she accelerated.

“I thought it was some kind of a game,” Phillip said.

“Of course it’s a game,” said Aunt Veola. “But here in Hardingtown it’s more than that. The American Dodgeball Company is the city’s biggest employer. There is no greater honor in Hardingtown than being inducted into the Historical Dodgeball Museum’s Hall of Fame. If you want to get along around here, you’ll have to play.”

That was the end of it. They continued in silence.

Aunt Veola pulled the sedan off the main street and through an alley. A sharp turn led up a steep hill. Houses lined the side of the hill like a staircase. Cars were crammed
together in front. Aunt Veola found an empty space near a narrow, Victorian-style row home.

“This is it,” she announced. The brightness of Aunt Veola’s clean white house made the dirty white houses on both sides look gray.

Inside, it smelled like disinfectant. Aunt Veola gave Phillip a tour. The whole time she was pointing out the kitchen and the laundry room and the pantry, Phillip heard an echo—“If you want to get along around here, you’ll have to play.”

When she showed him his bedroom, Phillip noticed a picture of his mom on his nightstand.

“So you won’t get too homesick,” explained Aunt Veola. Phillip had never seen his mom looking so young. She was wearing a red knit sweater embroidered with the initials H.H.

As he fell asleep that night Phillip couldn’t help but wonder: Why had his mom never told him about dodgeball?

C
ircus lingo is confusing to outsiders. For example, a circus cookhouse is called a pie car. But the term “cherry pie” means doing extra work for extra pay. If you go to the pie car and order cherry, you’re likely to be washing dishes on an empty stomach.

Phillip found noncircus lingo equally confusing. “Cat got your tongue?” Uncle Felix asked him between bites of crunchy breakfast cereal the next morning. A fruity puff dripped off the edge of his mouth and landed back in his bowl. He was a thick-necked man with ferociously curly blond hair that made his head look huge. Together with his chunky torso, skinny legs, and petite feet, it created a strangely shaped body that resembled an upside-down juggling pin. Exactly the opposite of Aunt Veola and, yet, a perfect upside-down fit.

Uncle Felix’s lips rested so little, Phillip wondered if he talked in his sleep.

“Huh?” Phillip asked.

“I know you’re probably nervous about starting school this morning. But let your wise old uncle set your mind at ease.” He cocked his finger and pointed it at Phillip like
a water pistol. “You’re going to have a great first day.”

Phillip sighed. “I hope so.”

“I know so,” said Uncle Felix. “I remember my first day of fifth grade like it was yesterday. One of the best days of my life.”

“You mean sixth grade,” said Phillip.

“No. I mean fifth grade. My first day of sixth grade was a complete disaster.”

“But I’m going into sixth grade,” said Phillip.

“Oh, sorry,” said Uncle Felix. “I forgot.” He passed Phillip the box of cereal. “Better eat. Don’t want your stomach grumbling all morning.”

Phillip sprinkled cereal into his bowl while Uncle Felix recited the list of vitamins and minerals the box promised in every serving. The tiny, hard balls pounded against the ceramic with clinking sounds. He poured in milk and watched the balls floating. Phillip always lost his appetite when he was worried about something. But he didn’t want to make stomach noises.

“Go on,” said Uncle Felix, “fill ’er up.”

Phillip forced the spoon into his mouth and chewed. The cereal was too sweet, and the milk tasted like it was about to go bad.

“Haven’t thought of my first day of sixth grade in a long time,” said Uncle Felix. “Everything that could go wrong did. First, I wore the wrong clothes. Completely out of style.”

Phillip looked at his blue jeans and plain gray T-shirt. Was he dressed okay? His ears felt warmer, like they always did when he got nervous or upset.

“Then, I lost my lunch money and had to borrow from the office.”

Phillip thought about a hole he had in the pocket of his jeans. Which side had he put his money into? He took a paper napkin from a holder on the table and wiped his sweaty forehead.

“Then, when I got to science class, there was this horrible smell, and I threw up all over the science teacher.”

Phillip dropped his spoon. It whopped into his bowl, sending milk splattering. His ears were so hot they felt sunburned.

“I have to go,” Phillip said, darting from his chair. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Good idea,” said Uncle Felix. “You’ll get detention if you’re late.”

Phillip rushed to the front door.

“If you ever need to talk about your worries again…” Uncle Felix called after him. Phillip was out the door before he could hear anything more.

As soon as he got down the hill, he felt better. The walk to school gave him a chance to cool down. Aunt Veola had written him directions to Hardingtown Middle School and he found it with ease. But once he was close up, the three-story brick building seemed huge and intimidating.

The inside was even worse. It was a maze of halls and classrooms. The “map” the office woman gave him did not show the floor plan. It only listed subjects and numbers. Phillip wondered what the numbers meant.

A bell rang and children hurried into classrooms. Then it was quiet. Phillip crept down the hall peering into each window. The rooms were large. So were the students. Everything seemed huge, except him.

“Hey, you,” a deep voice boomed.

Phillip swung around so quickly he practically knocked the voice over. It belonged to a lanky girl with shoulder-length black hair. She was wearing khaki pants and a red T-shirt with a big checkmark at the top. A faded blue sash hung from her left shoulder to her right hip.

“Get to class,” she said.

Phillip froze. The girl took a step closer.

“I said, get to class.”

Phillip looked at the classroom to his left and the one to his right. Either one had to be better than staying in the hall.

“Give me your schedule,” the girl snapped.

“My what?” Phillip asked.

“Your schedule,” she repeated. “Your class schedule.”

“You mean my map?” he asked, holding the paper up. The girl snatched it.

“First Period, English,” she read. “Room 209. It’s over there.”

“Thank you, Hall,” Phillip said.

“What did you call me?” she asked. Phillip looked at the name patch sewn on her blue sash. The end of it was curled inward so that he could not read the entire thing.

“Hall,” he said.

“Are you trying to be a wise guy?”

“No. Your name tag says Hall. Isn’t that your name?” The girl glanced down at her sash and swept the drooping patch back.

Hall Monitor
.

“My name,” she said, “is B.B. Tyson. And, for your information, nobody makes fun of B.B. Tyson.” She held the schedule out and let it drop to the floor. “Get to class.” B.B. turned and stomped off.

Phillip scooped up the paper and raced to room 209. Once he got settled in his seat, his breathing returned to normal. He noticed the kids raised their hands before speaking. They also handed one another papers rolled into triangles. Mr. Morton, a thin-haired man with a long beard, was talking and holding up books they would be required to read.

He took a piece of squeaky chalk and wrote on the board:
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
, by Mark Twain
. Groans were heard, although Phillip, who had already read the novel, was pleased. When his mom tutored him, he read one piece of classical literature each week. Reading was his favorite subject.

By the end of class, the churning in Phillip’s stomach was gone. The kid behind him told Phillip how to find his next classroom. The class after that, he found on his own.

At lunch, someone asked what school he went to before. Phillip didn’t want the kids to know about his circus past, so he only said he had a tutor. A group of kids in polo shirts let him sit with them. They talked about preparatory academies. They asked him what it was like to have a private tutor. He said it was lonely, especially since he had no brothers or sisters. After that, Phillip mostly ate his watery spaghetti, nodded, and smiled.

In geography, Phillip raised his hand when a teacher asked where was Walla Walla. He knew the answer was the state of Washington because the Windy Van Hooten Circus had been there. But the teacher had called on the girl sitting in front of him.

Phillip checked his schedule. His last class was gym. What was gym? There was no classroom number listed. Phillip turned down a new hallway. He saw double doors. The glass
in the doors was covered in wire netting. Above the doors it said
GYMNASIUM
. Phillip looked inside. It was like a circus arena without the tent. In the center was a performing area. Basketball hoops hung from the sides. A knotted rope spilled down from the ceiling in the corner. Boys and girls sat on the bleachers that lined the walls. Phillip went in and sat with them.

A man wearing a black baseball cap was in front of the crowd. He had a dimpled chin and a silver whistle that hung from a string around his neck. When he blew the whistle to quiet the crowd, Phillip half expected to see clowns ride unicycles onto the floor. The man introduced himself as the coach and told them they would have gym class every Monday. He talked about gym clothes and teamwork and pushing hard. He had a clipboard. Each time he said something, he would raise his clipboard and make a mark. After he was done, he asked if there were questions. Phillip thought about asking why the gym smelled like dirty socks when everyone had their shoes on but decided against it.

Coach looked at his watch.

“We still have fifteen minutes. Let’s play a little dodgeball,” he said. “Count off.”

Phillip heard the kids around him. “One.” “Two.” “One.” “Two,” they said. When the kid next to him said, “One,” Phillip said, “Two.”

“Ones on the left. Twos on the right,” said Coach. The group split in half, and the kids went to opposite sides of the gym. Coach placed three balls along a line in the middle of the gym. The stiff, inflatable balls were made of the kind of hard, grooved rubber that looked like it could remove skin at high speeds.

Coach blew his whistle.

Kids from both sides ran to grab the balls. One kid tumbled head over heels as another beat him to a ball. The kid who got the ball cocked his tongue and threw the ball over the line at the other team. To Phillip, the players looked like clowns chasing one another around the circus ring, throwing custard pies.

A kid jumped with both feet as a ball whizzed past ankle-high. His teammate grabbed the ball and sent it zooming back. A petite girl with a ponytail took it in the side and splattered onto the floor.

“You’re out,” Coach yelled. The girl crawled to the bleachers. The boy who threw the ball chuckled.

It reminded Phillip of the time his dad had given him the unicycle. As soon as he managed to balance himself, the clowns began chasing him, throwing pies. He hid from them on the trapeze platform for hours, until Bartholomew the Giant finally came and helped him down. Phillip still had nightmares about clowns throwing pies, trying to land one on his kisser. Nothing frightened him more than the thought of lemon meringue stuck in his nostrils. Until now.

Each time a kid got hit, Coach yelled, “Out!” and pointed. The kid who got hit would have to sit on the bleachers. Phillip could practically see the whipped cream streaming down their humiliated faces. He could hardly believe that kids with balls were purposely aiming at ones without them.

Whap!
A boy standing near the line got it in the gut.

Whack!
A girl who had turned to run got it in the back.

A ball zipped so close to Phillip, he could hear the air scream. The girl next to him twisted to avoid a low ball. She slipped, and the ball hit her as she lay on the ground. A circular
red spot formed on her exposed back thigh before she staggered away.

Phillip had lost three-quarters of his team. Fewer kids meant more balls thrown his way. He caught a glimpse of the clock. Maybe he could survive until the bell. He backed himself into the far corner.

“Get the new kid,” a familiar voice yelled. It was B.B. Tyson, the hall monitor. She lobbed a screamer right at him. It barely missed. There was no place to go. Phillip’s head brushed against the rope hanging from the ceiling. He jumped for the rope, grabbed the end, and began yanking himself up as fast as he could. B.B. unleashed another screamer at him.

“Get him!” she hollered. A ball zoomed by as he climbed. The rope swung, making him harder to hit. Closer to the ceiling, the balls dropped short of him. He was safe.

“Hey, Tarzan,” yelled B.B. She tossed her ball and beat her chest.

“
AhhhAhhAhhhaaaa!
” she roared.

“It’s George of the Jungle,” another kid shouted.