Athlete vs. Mathlete (15 page)

I took off right at the final buzzer, wanting to get out of there as fast as I could. I'd almost finished stuffing my gear into my bag when the rest of the team caught up with me.

“Nice game, Owen,” Paul said. “I never knew basketball was a solo sport.”

I didn't say anything.

“Why didn't you just share the ball?” Chris asked.

I shrugged. “I wanted to win.”

“Oh yeah?” Paul asked. “Well, so did we.”

Russell was the last guy into the locker room, and he didn't look at me or say anything. He just sat on the bench and took off his shoes.

“You were the
hero
, man,” Nate said, grinning and slapping him on the back. “Seventeen points. That's awesome!”

The guys crowded around Russell, and his face got all red.

When they all started high-fiving him, I knew I had to get out of there before I puked. I walked along the back of the bench, and that's when I saw them.

The Nikes
.

I checked over my shoulder to make sure no one was looking and picked them up off the floor. I shoved them into my bag, and instead of climbing the stairs to meet Mom and Dad, I opened the custodian's door and went outside.

There was no one around, so I ran around the corner to the Dumpster behind the cafeteria and pulled the shoes out of my bag.

I didn't even have to think about what I did next.

I threw them into the Dumpster and heard a splat.

Gross
.

I ran back to the locker room, like nothing had happened, and raced through to the gym before anybody noticed me.

“Not your best game,” Dad said when I met him in the stands. “You've got to start passing.”

“I was just trying to win,” I told him. Why did I have to keep explaining that?

“You'll do better next time,” Mom said, giving me a hug.

“Where's Russell?” Dad asked.

“Right here,” he said from behind me.

I couldn't help checking his feet, hoping he'd brought another pair of shoes.

Whew
.

Loafers
.

When I looked up again, Russ was staring at me.

“You were phenomenal!” Dad said, pulling him into a hug.

“Seventeen points,” Mom said. “Just fantastic!”

“We should go out for dinner, to celebrate,” Dad said, rubbing his belly.

My stomach was growling and I thought a big juicy hamburger might help me forget my time on the bench, so—

“Would it be okay if we just went home?” Russell asked. “I'm not feeling very well.”

“Is it your tummy?” Mom asked.

I checked to make sure no one heard her. We didn't say “tummy” in middle school.

We said gut, and mine was ready for some greasy french fries.

“Kind of,” Russ said, staring at me.

That's when my juicy hamburger went out the window.

Russ and I sat in the backseat for the drive home, and while Mom and Dad talked about the great game, Russ stared straight ahead and I stared at my hands.

“You two made quite the team out there,” Mom said.

“Well, they would have, if Owen had passed Russ the ball a few times,” Dad said.

“Or once,” Russ muttered.

“What's that, honey?” Mom asked.

“Nothing,” he said, quietly.

“I'm sorry you aren't feeling well,” she said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. “I've got chicken at home. I'll make you some soup.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he said.

Whatever.

He'd ended up being the hero of the game while I rode the stinkin' bench!

And did he even care?

The guy had only been playing basketball for a couple of weeks, and he had all his other junk, like Masters of the Mind and Math Club to keep him busy.

The only thing I had in the world was basketball.

And I was starting to lose it.

Boiling Point

On the way home, I had no interest in talking about the game, but that didn't stop my parents. While they talked, I tried to understand what Owen had done.

My brother and I didn't always see things the same way, and my idea of fair didn't always line up with his. I hated to say it, but sometimes Owen could be a bit … selfish. I tried to ignore it, because he had so many other great qualities, but when I thought about the way he'd taken those Nikes, it all came rushing back to me.

There were the bicycles my grandparents had given us for our birthdays in the second grade. I took special care of mine to make sure it always looked as good as new. But when Owen crashed his identical bike into a fence while he was
goofing around, bending the fender and scratching the paint down one side, he secretly swapped it for mine in the garage. He put a sticker with his name on it under the seat and pretended it had been his all along.

The sad part was, I would have traded him if he'd just asked me.

I could think of a hundred different cases just like that one, where Owen took the best without thinking about anyone else's feelings.

He took Dad's big gym bag when Mom told me I could use it for school. He drank the last of the milk. He hogged the TV. He “borrowed” things (like my digital watch) and never gave them back. He wouldn't even share his friends by letting me talk to Chris the other morning.

And now the shoes.

I could still picture his face when he came back into the locker room after taking them. Why did he even bother hiding them in his gym bag? Was I supposed to frantically search for them, like I did when I was eight and he buried the best astronaut from my Lego space station in the backyard? Or was it more like the game of “keep away” older kids used to play with my rock-identification kit at recess? Was I supposed to beg and plead with him to give me my beloved shoes back?

After all the hard work I'd put in and winning points I'd earned for the Pioneers, I would have thought I'd earned some respect, too. I was supposed to be one of the guys now. I was supposed to have cool gear.

Why did Owen want to ruin that?

As much as loved my brother, I was angry and disappointed that he was trying to play tricks. Especially when he knew how important those shoes were to me.

We drove past Jade Palace and I thought about that celebration dinner just the other night. Owen had grabbed the last egg roll without asking anyone else if they wanted it. I'd been in such a good mood at the time, I barely noticed, but now that I'd seen how mean he could be, I remembered.

I wiggled my toes. They felt strange in my loafers, like they weren't at home anymore.

I wondered how long Owen would wait to give me the Nikes back. Would he drag it out for a day? Two? Would he tuck the bag under his bed and wait until minutes before game time to whip them out from his hiding place? Or would he wait even longer?

No, he knew those shoes were the secret to my success on the court.

Hmm
. That got me wondering even more.

Did he steal them to
stop
me from playing basketball?

I didn't want to think so.

When I made the Pioneers roster, it felt like a dream I never knew existed had come true. I'd felt like I was part of something totally new and different and that I could be more than anyone expected. I was happy when I put on that jersey, when kids wished me luck in the hallway before the game and when the crowd cheered for me.

And Owen didn't like it.

In fact, I was beginning to think he hated it.

I closed my eyes.

There were so many things racing around in my mind, I couldn't focus on any of them. My stomach was in knots, thinking about all the different expectations people had of me.

Mom and Dad wanted me to be a basketball star.

Owen wanted me to fail.

Three Masters of the Mind members wanted me to give up basketball.

Arthur just wanted me to give up leadership.

But what did I want?

I thought about it for a second and the answer was obvious.

Most of all, I wanted those Nikes back.

When we got home, I knew Owen would go straight for his basketball. I also knew it was out in the garage, so I got there first.

When he came to get it, I was ready for him.

“Looking for this?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, making a grab for the ball.

But I wasn't ready to hand it over. I wanted answers.

“Why wouldn't you pass to me today?” I demanded.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I wanted to win.” He rolled his eyes. “Why doesn't anybody get that?”

“But you didn't even make all your shots.” I stared at him, wondering what he'd done with his gym bag. “In fact, I had a higher shooting percentage than you did.”

“Yeah, well you had more time on the court.”

“Only because you refused to be a team player and got taken out of the game,” I said quietly. There was a warning in my voice, but somehow he didn't hear it.

I asked him why he'd actually
stolen
the ball from me.

Of course, I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear him say it.

“Why don't you want me to play?” I demanded.

“Why'd
you
have to take all those shots? I told you from the very beginning that all you had to do was stand there!”

For the first time in my life, I could have punched him. “Maybe I didn't
want
to just stand there, Owen. Maybe I wanted to play the game like everybody else.”

“But—”

“You're the only person who told me to stand there, you know. Coach didn't say that. Dad didn't say that.” I paused. “Nobody else said that. Why do you want me to fail?

“I never said—”

“You don't have to say it, Owen. I can tell.”

“You don't know what you're talking about. You and your stupid Russell Hustle.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “
That's
why you're mad? Because I have a rhyme?”

It was almost funny. Almost.

“Maybe you had a rhyme already, Russ. Like Geek of the Week.”

I'd had enough. “Where are they?”

“Who?” he asked.

My fists were clenched by my sides. “My shoes, Owen.”

He paused, then told me, “In the Dumpster behind the cafeteria.”

I felt like I'd been punched.

The Dumpster
?

Those beautiful shoes? The most expensive things I'd ever owned? He'd thrown them into a pile of stinking, rotting garbage?

I thought I might be sick.

I wanted to tackle him or swear at him or something even worse. But I couldn't do any of those things.

Instead, I threw the ball at him. Hard.

“Oof,”
he grunted, catching it against his stomach.

“You know what, Owen? You're a total jerk,” I told him, then walked away before I could do or say anything worse.

Time-out

I don't know why, but Russ calling me a jerk felt worse than a swear word. It felt worse than a kick in the pants or a fist to the gut.