The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco (12 page)

E
lephant tail hair is considered such a good-luck charm that circus folk braid it into bracelets to wear during performances. As Phillip plodded to school the Tuesday after his suspension and saw his bare wrist, he wished he believed in lucky charms. He could use a bit of good luck.

“Hey, look who’s back,” said a kid.

“What’s up, Coleslaw?” said another.

It was weird. They sounded happy to see him. What was weirder was that Phillip felt happy to be back. Not happy to face another gym class, but happy to see his classmates and teachers and get back to his school subjects.

The rest of the week passed quickly. In English, they worked on declarative sentences. In science, they started projects for the science fair. In history, they learned about the Industrial Revolution.

If only there were no gym class tomorrow, Phillip thought Sunday evening. Another stomachache made him skip dinner. He went to bed early but had trouble falling asleep. When he was a little boy and he couldn’t sleep, he and his mom would play war with a deck of magic cards. No matter
how they shuffled, they would draw the same cards. Phillip’s eyes would droop, and his mom would tuck him in, pulling the covers up around his big ears.

Phillip wished he were little again.

He looked over at his circus trunk, still where he dropped it on his first day in Hardingtown. Wondering if the cards were in it, he slipped out of bed and lifted the trunk latch. It made a familiar creaking sound. Beneath a rubber chicken and whoopee cushion, he found his pogo stick and juggling balls.

He tossed the three balls into the air and mixed them around, letting them drop back onto his black satin cape in the trunk one at a time. Phillip picked up the cape and unfolded it. A white envelope fell out. His name was written across the envelope, in his mom’s handwriting. His hands began to perspire as he pulled the flap loose and opened the letter.

There was another paper inside the envelope. It was a schedule of where the Windy Van Hooten Circus would be performing during the year. Phillip scooted back into bed and checked the schedule. The Barlow Street Fairgrounds in
Poughkeepsie, New York. That’s where his mom and dad were tonight. He read the schedule from top to bottom, again and again, until he began to doze off.

When he woke the next morning, Phillip devoured a bowl of sugary cereal, three fried eggs, and four pieces of buttered toast. When they counted off at gym class, for the first time, he and B.B. were both “ones.”

Phillip adjusted his broken glasses, careful not to pop the lenses, and watched B.B. playing dodgeball from behind. She pushed down and flung up as if in slow motion and caught a ball intent on whizzing past her.

“You’re out,” Coach screamed at the dejected thrower.

B.B. flung a torpedo ball with such accuracy it sped between two kids standing side by side and grazed both of their arms at the same time.

“You’re both out,” Coach yelled at the disgraced duo.

Sweat formed on the back of B.B.’s T-shirt as she raced after the balls. She dove and stretched like a trapeze artist. No wonder she was the star of the dodgeball court. She wasn’t just a clown throwing pies. She had athletic artistry. He studied her every move. With B.B. on his team, Phillip’s side won easily.

During the next gym class, Phillip counted the number of kids forming in the line between him and B.B. and made sure they were an odd number of spaces away. That way, they would be on the same team again. He tried to stay as far from B.B. as he could so she wouldn’t realize what he was doing. For the next couple of weeks, his system worked. But even a magician sometimes pulls out the wrong card.

“Two,” said B.B, from the front of the line, one afternoon.

“One,” said Phillip from the rear.

The game started slow. Three balls were in play. Phillip dodged a low one. Most of the action was on the other side of the gym, where a couple of the better players had gotten into a skirmish near the ball line.

Where was B.B.? He found her and their eyes locked. She had a ball.

“Get the circus boy,” a boy with bulging biceps barked.

“Go on. Cream him,” shouted another.

B.B. was a statue.

“Get that ball in play,” Coach screamed.

For a moment, Phillip wasn’t sure if B.B. was going to throw it. Then she reared back and shot it like a bullet. The ball headed straight for his heart.

It happened so fast, Phillip didn’t have time to consider what to do. Instead, he reached out and caught the ball.

Phillip Edward Stanislaw caught the ball.

The ball thrown by B.B. Tyson.

“He froze with it in his hands. The force of the ball stung his fingers and made his hands tingle like he was holding his father’s hand buzzer. B.B. was already chasing another ball.

“Holy cow, you caught it,” said Shawn, who was standing near Phillip.

“He caught it,” Shawn yelled to Coach.

Coach blew his whistle.

The world stopped.

B.B. spun and saw Phillip.

Coach forced words from his mouth like an ill-prepared student, answering with an inflection at the end that changed the statement to a question. “You’re out?”

B.B. dropped the ball and marched toward the bleachers.

“That was cool!” one of the kids yelled.

“Yeah, good catch, Cool-slaw,” said another.

“Cool-slaw, Cool-slaw,” the group chanted.

Phillip felt his ears flush.

“That’s enough!” Coach roared. But the cheering continued.

Coach blew his whistle hard.

“I said that’s enough.”

The noise evaporated.

“Go get changed,” said Coach. The color was gone from his face.

A member of the Dodgeballers’ Club objected, “But we still have ten minutes left of class.”

“Beat it,” said Coach. The kids didn’t need telling twice.

Phillip saw B.B. sitting on the bleachers. Her arms were around her knees and she had buried her face in them. She didn’t look up once as the rest of the kids cleared the gym, leaving her and her father alone.

From outside the gym, Phillip could hear Coach’s raised voice. Spying through the wire-covered glass, he could see the anger in Coach’s animated hand gestures. For the first time since he’d met B.B. Tyson, Phillip felt sorry for her.

A
“fearless” snake charmer actually has little to worry about. A well-fed snake is sluggish and not dangerous. The gentle-looking zebra, however, can be an extremely difficult animal.

When Phillip lived with the circus, he knew the difference between a snake and a zebra. But the Hardingtown Middle School was a different jungle. It was hard to tell who wanted to drape around his shoulder and who wanted to kick him in the pants. Phillip had barely gotten out of his gym clothes when he heard an announcement over the loudspeaker telling him to report to the principal’s office. He went to his locker to get his sweatshirt.

“The principal is my pal,” Phillip reminded himself as he recalled the poster he had seen on the wall outside of Mr. Race’s office last month.

“They’re waiting for you in the conference room,” the principal’s secretary said.

An oval table filled most of the room. Two dark suits sat at the table. One of them was the vice-principal, Mr. Race. The other was the principal, Mr. Bellow, a husky, bushy-eyebrowed man with hairy hands wearing a pin-striped suit.
His necktie was embroidered with dodgeballs. Sitting across from the principals was Aunt Veola.”

“Come in, Phillip,” said Mr. Race.

Phillip took a seat next to Aunt Veola. She wore a strained expression. In front of her was a copy of the complaint Phillip had filed a few weeks ago, along with his “Request for Preliminary Injunction Hearing.” When Sam had first explained to Aunt Veola about the lawsuit, she had told Phillip she was proud of him for standing up against a bully. But would she still support his decision now that she was stuck in the ice chamber with Mr. Race and Mr. Bellow chipping away at her?

“We were just discussing your little research project with your aunt,” Mr. Race said.

“You’ve done an enormously serious thing,” Mr. Bellow told Phillip as he smoothed down his bushy eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” Phillip said. “But I don’t think the school should force us to play dodgeball. It’s too dangerous.”

“Have you forgotten where you are?” asked Mr. Race. “In Hardingtown, playing dodgeball is a privilege.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Bellow. “Playing dodgeball is an honor.”

Phillip wanted to be respectful, but he felt his mouth open and heard his voice coming out. “Getting my glasses broken was not an honor.”

“Young man,” Mr. Bellow said, “that bad attitude is not amusing.” Phillip looked at the vice-principal. He looked at the principal. Mr. Bellow was right—they did not look amused.

“Veola,” said Mr. Race, “you have my sympathies, taking in a boy who is constantly stirring up trouble.”

Phillip’s eyes stung. He squeezed them shut and tried to think of something else, anything else. Mr. Race has a big
face. Mr. Race has braces on his face. Mr. Race ate a shoelace. Now disappear from this place, without a trace. He opened his eyes. The vice-principal was still there.

“A boy who refuses to even try to get along,” added Mr. Bellow.

“I’m not an unfair man,” Mr. Race said. “I realize that children have poor judgment and frequently make mistakes.”

“Frequently,” agreed Mr. Bellow. “I don’t need to remind you of the fiasco Phillip’s mother created with her poor judgment.”

Mr. Race ran his tongue across his braces.

Aunt Veola looked away and stared at a spot on the wall.

“We’re willing to put this whole misunderstanding with Phillip behind us,” Mr. Race said.

“Veola,” said Mr. Bellow, “if you will see to it that the lawsuit is withdrawn, the school is willing to forgive and forget.”

Aunt Veola paused as if she was thinking it over. Mr. Bellow had an extra-large smile, the kind you see on a chimpanzee when he spreads the flaps of his lips to show his teeth. Phillip imagined Mr. Bellow swinging from the conference room light fixture with a bunch of rotted bananas under one of his hairy arms.

The beat of the clock took over the room until, at last, Aunt Veola spoke.

“Has Phillip broken any school rules?” she asked.

“No, I suppose, technically, he hasn’t,” Mr. Race admitted. “Nonetheless, when you file a lawsuit against your own school, it does violate the spirit of—

“Has he…” asked Aunt Veola, “broken any laws?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Bellow bellowed. “But what kind of a kid sues his own school?”

“Phillip, my nephew, does, and as long as he’s broken no school rules or law, I believe this is his decision to make.”

Mr. Bellow pressed his apelike knuckles against the table and stood up. He leaned toward Aunt Veola. His brow wrinkled and his eyebrows twisted toward his nose. “Things could turn out badly for the boy,” he warned.

Aunt Veola propped her own five-foot frame up against the other side of the table and matched him stare for stare. “Are you making a threat?” she demanded.

“I’m making a promise,” Mr. Bellow answered. “I promise that unless you drop this ridiculous lawsuit, every man, woman, and child in Hardingtown will hear about it and will know that you and your family are antidodgeball fanatics.”

“Veola,” said Mr. Race, “you have always been a respected member of this community. Ask yourself if you want to risk it all for a stubborn child.”

“Vice-principal Race,” Aunt Veola replied, “you can learn a lot from a stubborn child.” She left the office so quickly that Phillip had a hard time keeping up. He hadn’t seen anyone that angry since Perzi the Talking Parrot had given away the secret of the vanishing bird trick during a performance.

“B.B. Tyson isn’t the only bully in Hardingtown Middle School,” Aunt Veola muttered as they got into her car.

Phillip wasn’t sure what Aunt Veola meant. The whole meeting had been strange. It was like they knew something he didn’t.

She flipped open her glove compartment and fished out her driving gloves.

Mr. Bellow had said, “I don’t need to remind you of the fiasco Phillip’s mother created with her poor judgment.”

Fiasco? Phillip had heard that word before. But where?
Then he remembered. It was in the snack bar, when Sam was telling him about the worst fiasco in Hardingtown dodgeball history—the Dodgeball Cheerleader Fiasco.

“The girl,” Phillip said as Aunt Veola turned her ignition key, “the base cheerleader. She was my mom, wasn’t she?”

The engine made a grinding sound. It died. Aunt Veola suddenly looked like she had, too. “I’m so sorry, Phillip.” Her voice was strained. “I should have said something.”

“It’s okay,” said Phillip. “Sam told me about it.”