Athlete vs. Mathlete (18 page)

Nitu raised an eyebrow at me. “Are you really trying to decide whether you're a basketball player or a Master of the Mind?”

“Yes.” And whether I'd accidentally taken over Owen's role as the family athlete. Maybe he was having an identity crisis, too.

If I was the athlete
and
the mathlete, what did that leave for him?

Nitu looked worried. “Are you thinking about quitting?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to imagine how it would feel to turn in my jersey and what I would say to Coach Baxter.

“What?” Sara gasped.

“No, no.” I shook my head. “Not Masters. I'm thinking about quitting
basketball
.”

“Whew.”
Sara smiled. “You were making me nervous.”

“Do you know what's making
me
nervous?” I asked, ready to talk about something other than sports or my brother. “I don't know what to do about Arthur.”

“Neither do we,” Sara said, and sighed.

“Why does he even want to be on the team if he doesn't like any of us?” I asked, shaking my head.

Nitu laughed. “You didn't hear why he joined?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Because he thought it would look good on his Harvard application.”

“What? We're only in seventh grade!” I choked.

Should I have been thinking about college applications?

I had been, of course, but I hadn't joined clubs or teams based on whether universities would like me for it.

I joined because I wanted to have fun.

“He doesn't really care about any of it,” Nitu continued.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“He told us at the last meeting,” Sara explained.

“But he wants to take over as team leader?” I asked.

“Team leader probably looks better on the application.” Nitu shrugged.

Knowing that the team meant nothing to Arthur Richardson the Third was enough to convince me that something really had to be done.

And I needed the help of someone villainous.

Luckily, my evil twin lived right down the hall.

Squaring Up

When I got home, my parents asked how the game had gone, and I had to tell them we lost by thirty-two points.

“A blowout.” Dad groaned.

“Yup.”

“It happens to everyone,” he said, patting me on the back.

“Once?”

“More than once,” he said with a laugh. “It's sad, but true.”

It was sad, all right. “We really needed Russ.”

“Then you should tell him,” Mom said, like that was the easiest thing in the world.

Had she been in the same house as us for the past few days? Had she seen Russ pretend I didn't even exist?

“Uh, he's not talking to me.”

“That's the best part of telling him how you feel,” Mom said. “All he has to do is listen.”

But was Russ going to listen to me after I'd been such a jerk? I mean, what would I have done if he'd thrown my brand-new shoes in the Dumpster?

I would have given him something a lot worse than the silent treatment.

“Just try, honey,” Mom said while she messed up my hair. “It's all you can do.”

I figured she was right, so I climbed the stairs and knocked on Russ's bedroom door.

“Come in,” I heard from inside.

I turned the knob and opened it.

My brother was sitting at his desk, doing homework. He looked disappointed when he saw my face. “Oh, it's you.”

“Yeah,” I said, going in, anyway.

His Nikes were sitting on the floor of his closet. I hadn't seen him wear them since Dumpster Day. The new box (with the even better and more expensive shoes Dad bought for him) was still in the Go Time bag. “So, we uh—”

“I'm trying to study, Owen.”

If he wasn't studying, he was reading. If he wasn't reading, he was brainstorming. He could have used any excuse not to talk to me and he had.
For days
.

“I know, but—”

“It's what I do.” He frowned. “I study, I get good grades, I read nerdy books for fun, and I hang out with geeks, because I am one.”

“No you're not,” I told him. “Well, you are … but not in a bad way.”

“Of course I am, and it was stupid of me to think I could be anything else.”

“No it wasn't, Russ.”

He sighed, and turned back to his books. “I'm too busy for this.”

“We lost tonight,” I told him.

“Too bad,” he said, without looking at me.

“It was, actually. We got smoked.”

Russ flipped a page, then glanced at me again. “Are you still here?”

I wasn't going anywhere. “We lost by thirty-two points.”

“And?” He shrugged and looked at his book again.

I knew he was only pretending to read, though. His eyes weren't even moving. And that meant I had his attention! But what should I say to keep it?

The truth.

“And we needed you.”

That
snapped him out of it. He lifted his head from the book but still didn't make eye contact. He stared at his map of stars and stuff instead.

And then I went for it.

“We really did, Russ. We needed you to block, because no one else can do it like you—”

“I just stand there,” he said, quietly.

“No, you don't, and you know it. You block shots like crazy. We needed you for that, we needed you for points—”

“I can't make free throws.”

“But you can make
jump shots
.”

“My layups are really bad.”

“So? You make up for it in three-pointers.”

“I'm slow.”

He had me there. “Uh … you're getting faster.” At least I hoped he was.

“Look, I—”

“No,
you
look,” I said. “Seriously, Russ. Look at me.”

He turned toward me and fixed his crooked glasses. “What?”

“We need you on the team.”

He shook his head. “But you don't—”

“
I
need you on the team.”

He didn't say anything for a few seconds. “Really?”

“Really. I'm sorry I was such a jerk, but I was …” It was hard to say, but I had to do it. “I was jealous.”

Russ's eyes got huge. “Of me?”

“Yes,” I said, and gulped.

“Of my
basketball playing
?”

“Yup.”

He leaned back in his chair. “That's so weird.”

“Why?”

He shook his head, like the question was nuts. “No one has ever been jealous of me before, Owen. About anything. Not my math awards, my honor roll standing, and especially not sports.”

“Well, I was.” I cleared my throat. “I want to show you something, Russ.”

“I—”

Before he could say anything, I pulled my “inspiration” paper from my back pocket. I'd given up on writing about Tim Camden when I saw what playing like him had done to me and my team. It made them almost hate me, even when I scored. And how “inspiring” was a ball hog, anyway?

It had taken me a while to come up with a better subject for my paper, but that was okay. I'd had lots of time to think when Russ wasn't talking to me, and I'd figured out that my inspiration was … him.

I'd been feeling a bit weird about showing the paper to my brother, but I needed him to know how I felt. How important he was to me. How even though I was thirteen minutes older, I looked up to him.

I took a deep breath.

“Look,” I said, handing him the paper.

Russ squinted at it, then smiled. “An A-plus? That's great, Owen!”

“No, I mean … read it.”

“Your paper?”

“Yeah.”

My hands sweat and I tried not to watch him.

“You spelled ‘fraternal' wrong,” he said half a second after he started reading.

“Geez. Don't
correct
it;
read
it.”

Luckily, it only took him a minute or so.

When he was done, his face was pink and he was smiling. “Thank you, Owen.”

“You like it?” I asked nervously.

“Definitely.” He nodded, then asked, “You really feel that way about me?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Wow,” he whispered. “So, does this mean you're not jealous of me anymore?” He sounded kind of disappointed.

“Maybe a little bit, but I'll get over it. And I already know how.”

“How?”

That was easy.

I had a brand-new plan, and it was better than being the go-to guy. It was better than being selfish about scoring or greedy about gear. And it was definitely better than getting smoked by thirty-two points.

My brand-new plan was all about teamwork.

“Look, you've got skills and I've got skills. Separately, we're
good, but together, along with the rest of the Pioneers … we're dangerous.”

“But when you and I played together before—”

“That was before,” I told him. “From now on, two Evans brothers on the court at the same time is going to be …” I searched for the right word and it only took me a second to find it. “Magical.”

“You think so?” Russ asked doubtfully.

“Totally.”

He didn't say anything right away and I hoped what I'd said was sinking in. I didn't know what else I could do to convince him.

Finally, he nodded. “I'll think about it.”

“Awesome!”

“I said I'll
think about it
.”

“I know,” I told him. “I'm cool with that.”

I couldn't believe how happy I was that we were talking again. For the first time ever, I actually felt like my brother was my friend. It was amazing.

I hung out in Russ's room for a little while after that, and we talked about stuff we'd never gone over before.

One of those things was this twerp on his Masters of the Mind team named Arthur Richardson the Third. It turned out the kid had been kind of pushing my brother around and trying to take over.

And I'd had no idea.

Russell told me all about it, and when he was done, I had only one thing to say.

“Give him peanuts.”

“What?” Russ asked, blinking hard.

“You said he told you guys that peanuts are like grenades to him, so—”

“Owen,” Russell interrupted, shaking his head. “I don't want to
kill
him.”

Geez. Did he want my help or not? “Okay, what if you fed him something and just told him there were peanuts in it?” I suggested.

Russ looked at me like I was crazy. “What would that do?”

“Freak him out for a few minutes, which would be awesome to watch.”

Russell shook his head again. “I don't think we're attacking this from the right angle. Just forget the peanuts for now, okay?”

I nodded, and we were both quiet while we thought of a way to get rid of him.

“What's the college he wants to go to?” I asked.

“Harvard.”

I was pretty sure I'd heard of it before. “Where's that?”

Russ stared at me like I'd just asked him what my own name was. “Are you joking?”

“No.” Was it
that
dumb a question?

He looked like he wanted to say something, but he cleared his throat instead. Finally, he told me, “It's in Massachusetts.”

“Okay. Do they have any big teams or anything?”

“Are we talking about sports?”

“Yeah.”

“They're the Crimson, Owen. They have teams for everything, but I think they're known for rowing.”

“That works. And what about these college applications Arthur talks about? Do they want kids to be total brains and that's it?”

He thought for a second. “I've never looked at one, but I've always heard it's important to be well-rounded.”

“Like, fat?”

“What?” He looked confused for a second, then sighed. “Well-rounded means interested in more than one thing.”

“Like playing basketball
and
baseball?”

“No.” He sighed again, and I could tell this Arthur kid had really gotten on his nerves. “Like basketball and … let's say singing.”

“A singing basketball player?” I asked. “That doesn't even make sense.”

“Okay, a singing basketball player who's also part of a science or book club.”

“Gotcha,” I said, nodding as an idea came to me. “So, if you let Arthur know that being a brainiac isn't going to guarantee he gets into Havard—”

“Harvard,” Russ corrected.

“Right, Harvard. Anyway, if he starts to think that one more nerdy club won't mean as much as playing a sport—”

“Or volunteering somewhere,” Russ said, and I could tell by his smile that he was getting it.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Put enough pressure on being ‘well-rounded' and he'll quit on his own.”

“You really think so?” Russ asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Why did you ask me to help?”