Parts & Labor (20 page)

"Well,
Max, that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"You
are?"

"Yes,
I am. I didn't know my sneakers were made by poor kids in sweatshops. That's
wrong, just like you said. So I want to thank you for bringing it to my attention.
From now on, I won't wear my own sneakers."

"You
won't?"

"Nope."

Legend
leaned over and yanked his sneakers off his feet and dropped them into the
barrel. Then he took the clogs, put them on, and stood straight.

"Say,
these are sweet."

He now addressed the cameras.

"But
I play pro basketball, so I've got to wear sneakers. No other sneakers are
made in America, and I can't travel to every factory in Asia and see for myself
how they're being made and whether they're being made by kids. I grew up poor
here in East Austin, so I know what being poor is like.

"Therefore,
I am announcing today that I'm starting my own sneaker company right here in Austin. From now on, Legend Jones sneakers will be made in America by Americans being
paid a good wage. The plant will be located in East Austin and will employ two
hundred people. I'm going to recruit other NBA players to join with me and
invest in this company and manufacture their sneakers here, too. I'm going to
give back to the community and the country that gave so much to me.

"Max
Dugan made a difference. Now I'm going to make a difference. And I'm asking
other athletes to join with me. Imagine what we could do if the biggest stars
in sports join with me in manufacturing everything they endorse and wear right
here in America, where people need good jobs. We can change the world. And
thanks to Max Dugan, I'm gonna try.

"I'm
not a real hero like Max's dad. I'm just a basketball player. But I can still
do good with my life."

All
the students applauded. After a moment, Legend held up his hand.

"Oh—one
more thing."

Legend
turned to the doors. One of his people gestured at someone outside, and into
the cafeteria stepped a small young woman … a girl … who looked like
Sunny … and then I recognized her.

"Kim-Ly!"

She
ran to me and hugged me. She was crying.

"Max
Dugan!"

She
started talking in a foreign language—well, for me—and pointed at two older
Vietnamese people by the doors. I knew they were her parents.

"Kim-Ly
will go to college," Legend said. "Here, at the University of Texas. Then she wants to return to Vietnam and teach children. She wants to
make a difference, too. Thanks to Max Dugan."

He
stuck his big hand out to me, so I shook hands with Legend Jones for the cameras.
It was neat. And it ran on the evening news. I think that would have made Dad
prouder than my walk-off grand slam.

 

 

Things
were better after that.

Except
for Vic and his posse. They were getting bolder … and madder. They didn't
like the attention we were getting—we were in the newspaper, on local and
national TV, and then with Legend Jones. They picked that Friday—the day I
brought Norbert to school—to exact their revenge.

In
English class.

"Class,"
Mrs. Broadus said, "Max has brought a guest to school today. His name is
Norbert Nordstrom, and he's from out of town."

Way
out of town.

Mrs.
Broadus began reading
Holes
to the class again. Norbert was sitting to
my left, his attention fully focused on Mrs. Broadus. He was fascinated by the
story, or he had another crush on an older female. But I was keeping an eye on
Vic, who was sitting several rows left of us. I knew he would try something.
He did. I made the mistake of turning to Mrs. Broadus and listening for a few minutes,
and when I remembered to check on Vic, it was too late: Vic, Bud, Biff, and
Rod were all aiming big plastic straws at Norbert. They inhaled, clamped their
lips down on one end of their straws in unison, and blew hard. Out of the
other ends of the straws four wet spitballs exploded and hurtled through the
air like rockets, sailing past the faces of several other kids and heading
directly for Norbert's pale face—and I sat helpless, unable to save my friend
from the humiliation of being pounded simultaneously by four spitballs. My alien
friend's day at a human school would be ruined.

But
a split second before the four spitballs impacted the side of his face,
Norbert's left hand shot up and snatched them from the air like a lizard's
tongue snatching mosquitoes. Norbert lowered his hand and dropped the
spitballs to the floor without so much as a glance at Vic and his gang—whose
mouths had fallen open. Norbert had never turned his head.

Without
looking up from the book, Mrs. Broadus said, "Vic, Biff, Bud, Rod—you may
each sign a conduct card and have your parents sign it tonight. Return them to
me tomorrow."

Their
faces turned hot pink.

Which
didn't bode well for PE.

I
was showing Norbert where to sit on the sideline when Coach Slimes blew the
whistle to start the game. A ball immediately nailed me in the head and
knocked me down.

"Max,"
Norbert said, "are you damaged?"

"Just
my pride."

I
looked over and saw Vic pointing a finger at me and scowling.

"Throw
the ball with great force, Max," Norbert said.

I
turned to him and smiled.

"Okay."

I
got up off the floor and picked up the ball. Vic was standing thirty feet
away, mocking me as if I couldn't hit him, which was normally true. Except
Norbert was there. I reared back like an NFL quarterback throwing a bomb and
threw the ball with great force at Vic. The ball rocketed across the gym and
hit Vic right in his gut and sent him flying backward. He hit the floor on his
rear end and slid all the way across the gym to the far wall.

Everyone
laughed. At Vic.

Now
you'd think Vic would have learned his lesson. But like I said, he wasn't the
brightest kid in fourth grade. We were standing in front of our boycott table
in the cafeteria at lunch, and I was showing Norbert the sneakers Legend Jones
had dumped into the barrel—they were huge. The other kids were gathered around
when Vic and his gang pushed their way through.

"Hiya,
Max," Vic said in his bully voice. "Who's the dwarf albino?"

"He's
not a dwarf or an albino," I said. "He's my friend."

"He's
a freak. Just like you."

"Go
away, Vic. No one's afraid of you anymore."

"Oh,
yeah?"

He
stepped toward Norbert like he was going to hit him. He towered over the
little alien. I stepped between them and put my hands on my hips.

"You
want to hit someone, Vic, you hit me."

"Okay."

Vic
gut-punched me. I doubled over.

"I
didn't think you'd really do it."

Sunny
squatted next to me.

"Max,
are you all right?"

"I
think so."

Vic
stepped real close to Norbert—his little face hit Vic chest high. Norbert
turned his head up to Vic and said, "And so it begins."

"He
can't talk like that in America," Dee said.

"I
told him," I said.

Vic
grabbed Norbert's shirt and drew his fist back.

"Leave
him alone, Vic!" I shouted.

"Or
what?"

"Or
… Go ahead, Norbert, use the finger on him!"

"The
finger?" Vic said.

"He
can destroy you with his finger."

"And
I can break his nose with my fist."

"Victor
is not going to hit me," Norbert said.

"I'm
not?"

"No, Victor, you're not."

"Why
not?"

"Because
you would damage your hand."

"Hitting
you? You're a dwarf."

"A
very strong dwarf," Dee said.

"Victor,
if you damage your hand, you would not be able to play the piano."

Vic
stared down at Norbert. "What are you talking about?"

"Yeah,"
Biff said. "Vic don't play the piano. That's for sissies."

Bud
and Rod crowded in.

"He
plays football," Rod said.

"Yeah,
football," Bud said.

"Tell
them, Victor," Norbert said. "Tell them that you prefer playing the
piano, but you play football because your father forces you to."

"That's
a lie!"

"Is
it?" Norbert said.

"You
play the piano?" Bud said.

"Shut up!" Vic said.

"Yes,"
Norbert said. "He plays the piano. And he is very good. Let me show
you."

Norbert
spoke static to Sunny's laptop, which was playing the sweatshop video, and the
screen suddenly changed to a video of Vic playing the piano. Everyone stared
as if in shock.

"You
do play the piano," I said.

"You're
good," Sunny said.

"Football
will ruin your fingers, Victor," Norbert said. "You must tell your
father that you want to be a concert pianist, not a quarterback. You must
follow your dreams, not his."

Vic's
face sank.

"My
dad, he was a big star in high school. He wants me to be like him."

"No,
he wants you to be what he was not."

Norbert
again spoke static to Sunny's laptop. Now a video of a high school football
team played. The picture zoomed in on the sideline, on a chubby water boy.

"That
is your father, Vic."

Vic
stared at the screen. "He didn't play?"

"No.
He was overweight and slow. The other boys made fun of him."

The
video showed the players coming off the field and pushing the water boy out of
their way. He fell to the ground.

"Victor,
when your father's existence is terminated, you will be left with your lost
dreams, just as he is today. And you will become bitter, just as he is today.
And you will bully your son, just as he bullies you."

"He
doesn't bully me!"

Norbert
gestured at the laptop. "Would you like me to show you?"

Vic's
shoulders slumped. He suddenly looked small.

"No."

"Your
father was bullied in school. That is why he bullies you and you bully Max.
You must break the cycle, Victor, or you will bully your son. Do you want
that?"

Vic
shook his head.

"Then
you must tell your father that your dream is not football. It is the
piano."

For
a second, I thought he might cry. But he sucked it up and stood tall.

"I'm
sorry, Max. No one will bully you anymore. And I'll buy you a new iPod."

"That's
okay. Norbert fixed it."

"Max
… I was always jealous of you."

"Me?
You were jealous of me? Why?"

"Because
I always wished my dad was like your dad."

Vic
put his hand on my shoulder.

"I'm
sorry about your dad, Max."

Vic
pulled off his new Legend Jones sneakers (the ones he had bought to replace the
ones I had hurled on) and dropped them into the barrel. He took a pair of red
flip-flops and stepped into them. Then he held his fist out to me. Not to punch
me, but to give me a fist-bump. I tapped knuckles with him. Then he turned
and walked through the crowd and out the door.

Wow.

"That
was nice, what you did with Vic. Knowing everything about everyone came in
pretty handy."

Norbert
and I were walking home after school. It was a nice afternoon.

"Victor
was conflicted, trying to please himself and his father."

"Like
you?"

Norbert
smiled. "You are very intelligent, Max."

"Thanks,
but I've been trying to show you how stupid humans are."

"Yes.
I am conflicted. My father is going to file his report recommending our
government to take over Earth, but I do not want him to do so. I have come to
believe that humans deserve more time to save Earth before we destroy it …"

The
Congress Avenue stop light flashed the WALK sign. Norbert kept talking, but
I still checked for oncoming cars running the red light. It was all clear so
we stepped off the sidewalk and started crossing the wide avenue.

"… My father is making his determination on too small a sampling of humans and
human behavior and …"

I
was almost to the other side of Congress and thinking that perhaps we should
stop at the cupcake trailer when I realized that Norbert's voice had grown
distant then had stopped altogether. I looked for him to my side. He wasn't
there. I turned back. He had stopped in the middle of Congress Avenue and was
now gazing north at the State Capitol in downtown.

He
didn't see the car.

And
the driver didn't see him.

The
driver's head was down—he was texting.

He
wasn't stopping for the light.

He
was going to hit Norbert.

I
ran to Norbert … I saw the car … the driver looked up … he saw me … he hit the brakes … the tires squealed … I pushed Norbert hard … he fell forward … out of the way … the car hit me … that's all I
remember.

Floyd
T. was sitting on the stoop of Ramon's tattoo parlor and writing his memoirs in
a Big Chief notebook when he heard the tires squealing. He looked up just as
the car hit little Max Dugan. He vaulted to his foot and yelled to Ramon inside
the tattoo parlor, "Call nine-one-one!" Then he ran as fast as he
could with the artificial leg into the middle of Congress Avenue where Max lay sprawled
on the concrete. He dropped to the ground and felt for Max's pulse.

He
was alive.

But
he was unconscious.

Andy
was now next to him. Floyd T. knew not to move the boy in case of a spinal
cord injury. So he said a prayer, the same prayer he had said so many times in
Vietnam over a fallen soldier. The same prayer he had said when he himself had
fallen that last time. A young man came forward, holding out a cell phone, his
face pale and shocked.