Parts & Labor (7 page)

"Don't
you go to school?" I asked.

He
shook his head. "I am educated at home."

"Why?"

"My
intellect is far too advanced for your schools."

"I
knew it—you're foreign."

"Yes."

"California?"

"Los Angeles. How did you know?"

"Everyone
who moves here from California says our schools are terrible. But our football
teams are great, so people here don't care."

Norbert
gestured down the sidewalk. "You were not pursued home this day?"

"
Pursued?
Oh, you mean Vic and his posse?"

Norbert
nodded.

"No,
they didn't chase me today."

"Why
not?"

"They're
scared of me now, because of what I did to them yesterday. Did you see that?"
I pointed out at the sidewalk in front of the house. "They were all over
me, and I threw my fists out, and they went flying down the sidewalk." I
smiled at the memory. "Boy, that was amazing."

"Yes.
Amazing."

"I
think I have superpowers, like the Hulk."

"What
is a hulk?"

"Not
a
hulk.
The
Hulk. When he gets mad, he gets really big and
really strong. He's a superhero, like Superman and Spiderman and Batman.
Well, Batman doesn't really have superpowers, but he's got neat gadgets that
make him seem super."

"Ah."

"So
how do you like living in Austin?"

"I
have not yet observed the city."

"Well,
I can show you around the neighborhood, if you want?"

"That
would be excellent."

"How
about this weekend?"

"My
father will be working, so I will be available."

"What
does he do?"

"He
is employed by the government. He must work every day and many nights."

"Where's
your mom?"

Norbert's
expression changed. "Her existence was terminated."

I
wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but his face told me it wasn't good. We
didn't say anything for a few minutes, and I could tell he was sad so I changed
the subject.

"You
got any brothers or sisters?"

"I
have no siblings."

"I've
got two. Scarlett, she's fourteen, and Maddy, she's four. So—"

I
froze. A black car had turned onto our street. I watched it come closer, but
it didn't stop. It drove past our house. I realized I had been holding my
breath. I exhaled and felt my body relax.

"Are
your emotions in turmoil?" Norbert asked.

"Oh,
uh, I don't like black cars."

Norbert
stared at me a moment then nodded. "I understand."

"You
do?"

"Yes.
I do."

That's
weird.

"So
you're home alone a lot?"

"I
am."

"Well,
I've got a baseball game tomorrow morning at ten, if you want to come?"

"Baseball.
The American pastime invented by Alexander Cartwright in eighteen-forty-five. Do
you take performance enhancing drugs?"

"Nah.
Kids don't do that, only the pros. So they can hit more home runs."

"Do
you hit home runs?"

"
Me?
I've never even had a hit. You play?"

"I
do not engage in athletic contests."

"I
shouldn't. But my mom is worried about me, she says I spend too much time in
my room these days. So, dude, you want to come to my game?"

"What
is a 'dude'?"

I
started to laugh—
who on Earth didn't know what "dude" meant?
—then
I remembered: home schooled.

"Oh,
that's just an expression. It means friend."

"I
am your friend?"

"You
are now."

Norbert's
face brightened. "Dude, I would like to attend your baseball game."

"Okay.
We'll leave around nine, so just come on over."

I
said goodbye and walked around the hedge to my house. And I thought,
Nice
boy, but he does have a funny way of expressing himself.

"I
met the new kid next door. His name is Norbert. Seems like a nice boy. Short
but nice."

We
were eating dinner—chili—and playing Scrabble. Scarlett was winning, Maddy was
pretending to be a cat so she was trying to eat her chili without a spoon, and Mom was pouring a glass from another long bottle.

"Norbert?"
Scarlett said. "That's an odd name."

"He's
foreign. From California."

"Does
he go to your school?" Mom asked.

"No,
he's home schooled."

"Ohhh."

Ohhh
,
like when a neighborhood mom told her that Mrs. Cushing modeled underwear for
the newspaper advertisements when she was younger.

"He
talks kind of funny, but he seems real smart. Anyway, he doesn't have a mother
and his dad's working this weekend, so I invited him to my game."

"Are
they divorced or is she …"

"I
don't know, but he seemed kind of sad. So is it okay if he comes with us?"

"Sure."

"But
be prepared, because he's kind of different."

"A-L-I-E-N,"
Scarlett said. "Double word score, that's ten points."

 

 

Maddy
screamed, "Aah!"

She was standing frozen at the bottom of the stairs
and pointing at the front door. A pale face was plastered against the glass.
Which made me jump, too.

But
it was just Norbert.

"It's
okay, Maddy. He's the boy from next door."

I
opened the front door. Norbert was again dressed like a catalog boy.

"Hey,
Norbert."

"Dude."

It
was seven the next morning. I was already dressed in my rec specs and Dodgers
uniform for the game. Mom and Scarlett slept in on Saturdays—Dad said they were
getting their beauty sleep, but they always looked the same when they woke up.
Maddy and I got up early to watch cartoons and eat Honey-Nut Cheerios out of
the box. I introduced Maddy to Norbert. She went into the den and turned on
the TV. I went into the kitchen and found the cereal in the pantry and two
long bottles in the trash.

Dad
had always gotten up with us and cooked a big breakfast on Saturdays. (Firemen
cook for each other at the station.) He'd have the table set and the food
served when Mom and Scarlett came downstairs. We used to look forward to his breakfasts.
Everything was different now. Funny how you take your parents for granted.
You think,
Hey, I've got my Wii. I'm happy.
But when your dad isn't
there anymore, a Wii won't make you happy. Trust me on that.

An
hour later when Mom came downstairs—she did not look like she'd just had a
beauty sleep—Norbert was finishing off the box of Cheerios and laughing hysterically,
like it was the first time he'd ever seen
SpongeBob.
It was just a
rerun, but a sponge living in a pineapple on the ocean floor, that never gets
old.

"That
Mr. Krabs, he is quite an amusing character," Norbert said.
"Cha-ching. I like that, although I am not sure what it means."

"Money,"
I said. "You know, like the sound of a cash register." I turned to Mom. "This is Norbert. He's the kid from next door."

"Hello,
Norbert. I'm Mrs. Dugan."

Norbert
jumped off the couch, stood straight, and reached up and shook my mom's hand
like a grownup.

"Norbert
Nordstrom. Thank you for the pie. I enjoyed consuming it."

Mom gave me one of those looks that said,
Wow, when you said short, you really meant short
.
But to Norbert, she said, "You're quite welcome. Nordstrom … is that
a Swedish name?"

"Not
exactly."

"Well,
you look very nice, Norbert. We're happy you're going to the game with us."
Mom looked around. "Where's Maddy?"

I
glanced around. "She was right here."

"Maddy!"

She
came running out of the kitchen with a box of cereal, took a hard left around
us, and circled the den three times before running back into the kitchen. Mom groaned.

"Max,
she got into the Lucky Charms."

During
one of Mom's few—
like once in a lifetime
—weak moments, I had talked her
into buying a box of Lucky Charms. Madeleine Dugan was now riding a major-league
sugar high.

"My
bad."

A
voice from above: "Hi, guys."

Scarlett
bounced down the stairs in her green-and-gold cheerleader outfit. She cheered
for the eighth-grade football team on Saturday afternoons. Band, cheerleading,
the chess club, the yearbook staff—Mom said staying busy was Scarlett's way of
coping. And it was less painful than hitting walls, although playing the
clarinet would be a close second.

"Scarlett,
this is our new neighbor," Mom said. "Norbert."

"Hi,
Norbert. I'm Scarlett."

Norbert
did not speak. He stood there with his mouth open, staring up at my big sister
like I stared at the chocolate fountain at Whole Foods. He finally spoke.

"You
are a magnificent example of your species."

"Nah,"
I said. "She's just fourteen. Older girls always look glamorous.
Especially the cheerleaders."

"How
old are you, Norbert?" Scarlett asked.

"Ten
… in your years."

Scarlett
laughed. "As opposed to dog years?"

"I
told you he has a funny way of expressing himself," I said.

Mom and Scarlett ate breakfast, then we went out back—Maddy ran—and piled into the old Suburban.
My parents had bought the big SUV when gas was cheap and no one was worried
about global warming, but now we couldn't afford to buy a hybrid. Norbert looked
around as if he had never been in a car before, then he abruptly leaned over.
He came back up with a blue peanut M&M.

"What
is this?" he asked.

"Oh,"
I said, "that's a peanut M&M. They're great."

"A
food item?"

"Uh,
yeah, but—"

Before
I could stop him, he ate it.

"It
is tasty."

"Dude,
that's probably been on the floorboard for like, months! … You see any
more?"

We
drove over to the baseball fields by the lake. When he wasn't staring at
Scarlett, Norbert stared wide-eyed out the window like Japanese tourists on
their first trip to Texas hoping to see cowboys and Indians. When we got to
the field, I ran ahead with my glove and bat for warm-ups.

"Good
luck, Max!" Mom yelled.

"Cup
check!"

A
field of dreams. A baseball diamond on a glorious Saturday morning—the sun was
bright, the sky blue, the grass green, and the cotton candy pink. The popcorn
was white. The hot dogs were … that hot dog color. Most people come to
the ball park for the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, the smell of the
grass … I come for the concession stand. I was standing on the infield
grass eating my high-protein-and-carbs pregame meal—a Snickers bar—and daydreaming
about my postgame meal—a foot-long (they were actually only 9¾ inches long; I measured)
all-beef hot dog.

Consequently,
Coach's words—"Cup check!"—never fully registered with my mind. But
I followed the other players and lined up along the first base line anyway. The
alluring scent of freshly grilled hot dogs had drifted over on the breeze, and
my mind was slathering mustard and relish on a big fat juicy dog wrapped in a
soft warm bun … so I was completely unaware that Coach was now walking down
the line of boys and conducting the mandatory pregame cup check—rapping each
boy's cup with a metal bat—the bigger boys standing proudly with their
shoulders back and their cups forward as if daring Coach to give them a good
rap, so he did, each time a bit harder, but he saved the hardest rap for … me.

"Uummpphh!'

A
nauseating pain washed over my body and abruptly ended my hot dog dreams. I clutched
my crotch and dropped to my knees then rolled forward to the ground. The brown
gob of Snickers fell out of my open mouth. The other boys laughed, and Coach
Slimes—he was the baseball coach, too—chuckled.

"Forgot
your cup again, Max?"

"Yep."

My
voice sounded like Maddy's.

"Man
up, Max," Coach said.

I
adjusted my cup.

I
had manned up and was now standing out in left field where nothing much ever
happened. Which was why Coach Slimes always put me out here. He said I would
have fewer opportunities to commit errors in the outfield. Not many ten- or
eleven-year-old kids could hit the ball out of the infield, so playing in the
outfield was pretty boring. I tried not to daydream just in case a ball did
come my way, but none ever did. So I mostly passed the time adjusting my cup.

At
least out here you had a good view of the game.

Coach
called us his "band of misfits" when he was in a good mood, which is
to say, when we were winning. When we were losing, he called us a "bunch
of lazy pishers," although none of us knew what pishers were.

But
we were a motley crew.

Ronald,
who played in right field, was an even worse athlete than me. Right now he was
scratching his butt and staring up at the jets on their final approach to the Austin airport like he was fascinated with flight. This was his first baseball season. He
was home schooled and seldom socialized with kids his own age, so his mom
thought baseball would be a good developmental experience.

"Ronald!"
Coach yelled. "The game's not up there! It's down here!"

Joey
in center field, Cole on first, and Mitch at short were good athletes who knew
how to play baseball. Skipper at third wasn't as good, but he tried to make up
for his lack of skill with enthusiasm. He chanted at every batter on every
pitch: "Come on batter batter batter, swing batter!" Which drove
the batters nuts. And me, too. After six innings of that, I wanted to clock
Skipper with an aluminum bat.

Osvaldo
at second stood just over four feet tall and wasn't as good as his dad thought
he was, but with a name like Osvaldo Rodriguez—his dad called him
"O-Rod"—he figured he was a sure bet for the pros.