The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco (16 page)

Phillip could not imagine what these things had to do with his lawsuit, but he was grateful that Mr. Dinkle had chosen to be brief, and he wondered how long the questioning would have gone on had he not. When Mr. Dinkle was finally done, the judge asked Phillip if he had any more questions for the witness.

“Only one,” said Phillip. “Mr. Nerp, are children supposed to use your dodgeballs to hit other children?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Nerp.

“Okay,” said Phillip. He sat down.

Scattered clapping drifted from the last row of spectator seating.

“Call your next witness,” the judge ordered Phillip, sounding like a circus announcer preparing the audience for the next act of the show. Phillip picked up the witness list and read the next name.

“I call Francis Lee Tyson,” said Phillip.

He looked out into the crowd to see who it would be. A chair at the defendants’ table slid backward and Coach Tyson stood up.

Phillip almost wet his pants.

“Your Honor,” he asked excitedly, “please, may I go to the bathroom?”

“You’ve already called the witness,” the judge said. “Can’t you wait?”

“I’ve really got to go,” said Phillip.

Judge Monn sighed. “The court will be in recess for five
minutes.” She banged her gavel and everyone stood. “Please remain in the courtroom, except, of course, for you, Mr. Stanislaw.” The second Judge Monn disappeared into her judicial chambers, the courtroom erupted with the sound of gossiping spectators.

Phillip felt hundreds of eyes on him as he made his way to the door. A group of kids whose parents worked at the dodgeball factory glared at him menacingly. Mr. Race was sitting in the back row closest to the door. He sneered at Phillip, his braces shining like jagged shark teeth. Phillip yanked the door open so hard he nearly knocked himself over. He stood with his back against it on the other side, trying to remember if he needed to breathe in or out.

Last time he had wanted to talk to Coach—at school when B.B. got out of his car—Phillip didn’t have the nerve to face him. How could he question Coach now in front of a whole roomful of people?

U
sing arrows to mark the way is a circus tradition. Before the Windy Van Hooten Circus moves from one town to the next, the twenty-four-hour advance man marks the route with a system of red arrows. It’s the only way to make sure the dancing bears don’t end up in Pittsburgh and the dancing bears’ food in Cleveland.

As Phillip looked for the closest bathroom, he wished the upstairs hallway of the Hardingtown County Courthouse were marked with arrows. He finally found the men’s room next to the main elevator, the elevator that could take him down to the ground floor, where he could sneak out the back of the building and run away from the whole thing. Phillip looked at the men’s-room door. He looked at the elevator door.

Inside the courtroom, the buzz died down, and the spectators, grateful for the five-minute stretch, took their seats. Judge Monn reentered.

“All rise,” the tipstaff said. The judge settled herself and looked over at Phillip’s empty chair.

“Where is Mr. Stanislaw?” she asked. The courtroom door squeaked open and Phillip peeked in.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Phillip said, “I’m stuck.” Holding one hand on his pants zipper and the other on his waist, he reluctantly entered the room. The teeth of his pants zipper were held fast to a piece of necktie that jutted out from the crotch of his pants. The courtroom shook with laughter.

“Tipstaff,” Judge Monn said, “will you please assist Mr. Stanislaw with his…predicament.” He took Phillip into the hallway to help him jiggle the necktie free from the zipper.

“Don’t worry,” said the tipstaff, “it happens all the time.” Phillip could hear snickers from the courtroom.

“They’re laughing at me,” he said.

“Ignore it,” said the tipstaff. “Those high-price lawyers are trying to get to you.”

“It’s not so much the lawyers,” said Phillip. “I just wish my classmates weren’t here. It makes it so much harder.”

“That’s why Stinky brought them.”

“Stinky?”

“Stinky Race. Your vice-principal. That’s what we used to call him when we were in school.”

Suddenly, it all made sense.

“He’s the bully who threw the dodgeball at my mom when she was holding up the cheerleader pyramid,” said Phillip.

“It was Mr. Race, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t see it happen,” said the tipstaff. “I had my back turned.” He pulled at the zipper, but it wouldn’t budge. “Old Stinky sure got his reward for that dirty trick.”

“What do you mean?” asked Phillip.

“Guess who landed on
him
?”

Phillip pictured his mom, younger but not lighter, as she struggled to keep her balance so the pyramid wouldn’t fall. She soared forward, then back. Her trusting friends above
her were helplessly yanked like kites in the wind. Finally, she lurched forward, stopping mere feet from Stinky—when her knees buckled. Phillip could hear Stinky scream as he was swallowed in the giant folds of her cheerleading uniform.

“It took a team of dentists seven hours to wire Stinky’s teeth back together,” said the tipstaff. “They’ve never been able to get them completely straight.” He gave a final yank, and the cloth broke free from the zipper.

“There you go, kid.”

“Thank you.” Phillip flipped the long part of the necktie over his shoulder and carefully glided up the zipper.

“Stinky is hoping that with your classmates here, you won’t have the guts to finish what you started.”

“I promised Sam I wouldn’t quit,” said Phillip. “I promised myself.”

The tipstaff straightened Phillip’s tie. “Then I guess you better get back in there,” he said.

When Phillip reentered the courtroom, Mr. Race gave him another sneer. This time, Phillip sneered back.

Coach was already on the witness stand. The tipstaff swore him in.

“Try to get Coach to admit that he teaches the kids to hit other kids with dodgeballs,” Sam advised.

Phillip stared at the carpet in front of the witness stand.

“Coach,” he began, then lost his train of thought.

He knew he had to look brave even if he didn’t feel it. Whenever the Pork Downs Racing Circus Pigs were performing, you could tell the frightened pigs from the confident ones by looking at their tails. The more relaxed a pig was, the curlier his tail. The straight-tailed pig was never first to the delicious slop at the finish line. Phillip tried to relax his tail.

“Mr. Stanislaw, we’re waiting for your question,” said Judge Monn. Phillip forced himself to look at Coach. He seemed different without his whistle and cap. Still scary but a little less so.

“Coach Tyson,” he said, “do we play dodgeball in gym?”

“You know we do.”

“Why?”

“Because this is Hardingtown.”

“Do you tell kids they should use the dodgeballs to hit other kids?”

“Of course. That’s how you play dodgeball.”

“Can’t we play something else?”

“Not in Hardingtown. Here we play dodgeball.”

Phillip didn’t know what else to ask, so he sat down.

Mr. Dinkle asked Coach questions about physical education. Coach talked about how you have to be tough to survive in this world and how playing dodgeball helps toughen kids up. He used terms like “gross motor skills” and “quick reaction times” and “aerobic workout.” He did not mention that the kids sometimes called it “slaughter ball” or “killer ball” or “prison ball.”

“Did you ever instruct anyone to throw a dodgeball at Mr. Stanislaw?” asked Mr. Dinkle.

“Not specifically,” Coach answered.

“Did you ever instruct a student to throw a dodgeball in the face of another student?”

“No.”

“Do you have an opinion as to whether or not Ms. Tyson intentionally hit Mr. Stanislaw in the face with the dodgeball?”

“In my opinion,” said Coach, “it was an accident.”

“Could Mr. Stanislaw have avoided the accident?” Mr. Dinkle asked.

“Yes,” said Coach. “He could have moved out of the way.”

Phillip felt like a big fat dodgeball had hit him in the stomach. Was it his fault? Should he have jumped out of the way instead of standing his ground? No, he thought, I can’t start doubting myself.

“Mr. Stanislaw,” said Judge Monn. “Do you have any further questions for this witness?”

Coach scowled.

Phillip shook his head.

“Call your next witness,” Judge Monn said.

“My next witness is B.B. Tyson.”

B.B. wore a blue dress with tiny, pink flowers and a locket on a gold chain. As she went to the witness stand, she suddenly seemed to walk like a girl. The tipstaff had B.B. put one hand on a Bible and the other hand up in the air. Like the other witnesses, she swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Phillip had never before been in a place where only the truth could be spoken. He liked it. He didn’t have to consult with Sam about questions for B.B. He knew what he wanted to ask.

“Why did you hit me in the head with a dodgeball?”

“Objection!” said Mr. Dinkle. “Lack of foundation and assuming facts not in evidence.”

“Sustained,” said the judge. To Phillip, they might as well have been speaking pig Latin.

“Mr. Stanislaw,” said Judge Monn, “you’ll have to begin by establishing who the witness is.”

“I already know who she is,” said Phillip.

“You have to establish who the witness is for the benefit of the court,” said the Judge. “Let’s stop pussyfooting around. Just ask her who she is.”

Phillip looked at B.B. She was playing with a string hanging from the lace on the sleeve of her dress.

“B.B.,” he said, “who are you?”

“State your name for the record,” Judge Monn added to speed things along.

“My real name?” she asked. “Like on my birth certificate?”

“Yes,” said the judge, “your legal name.”

“My name is Barbara Beth Tyson. But nobody calls me that except my grandma.”

“Thank you, Ms. Tyson,” said the judge. Turning to Phillip, she added, “Now you may continue, Mr. Stanislaw.”

“B.B.,” said Phillip, “have you ever hit anyone with a dodgeball?”

“Sure,” she said, “lots of times.”

“Why do you keep doing it?” he asked.

“Because it’s gym class, and it’s dodgeball, and I’m supposed to hit kids.”

“Did you break my glasses?”

“They must have broken when I hit you with the dodgeball,” she admitted.

“Okay. Thanks,” he said. Phillip sat down. Sam smiled and patted him on the back.

“I have a few questions on cross-examination,” Mr. Dinkle said. “Good morning, Barbara. That’s a lovely dress.”

“My grandma made me wear it.”

“How old are you, Barbara?” he asked.

After some hesitation, she answered, “I’m almost thirteen.”

“The reason you’re still in sixth grade is because you got held back, isn’t that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you get held back?” he asked.

B.B. played with her dress lace. “It was a car accident,” she said. “When I was seven years old, I busted my back and had to wear a brace, and I couldn’t go to school for a long time.”

“Is that the same accident that killed your mother?”

“Yes,” said B.B.

“Barbara,” Mr. Dinkle said, “when you threw the ball that allegedly broke Mr. Stanislaw’s glasses, you didn’t mean to, did you?”

“I didn’t mean to break his glasses.”

“You didn’t mean to hurt him, right?”

B.B. was silent. “Do you want to know the truth?” she asked Judge Monn.

“That’s why we’re here,” Judge Monn answered.

“I was mad at him. In the cafeteria, he got meat loaf and peas on me. All the kids saw it. They were expecting me to pay him back.”

“Objection,” said Mr. Dinkle. “Your Honor, the witness is going far beyond my question.”

“Oh, be quiet and sit down,” said Judge Monn. “Continue, Ms. Tyson.”

“I didn’t mean to hit him in the face. When his glasses broke, I was sorry.”

“Why didn’t you apologize?” asked the judge.

“I wanted to, but I was afraid my dad would think I was wussy. He hates wusses.”

Phillip stood up.

“Do you have an objection?” the judge asked Phillip.

“No,” Phillip said. “I just wanted to tell B.B. that I think she’s brave for telling the truth.” B.B. flipped a piece of hair out of her eyes and beamed.

“One more thing,” she said, looking at Phillip. “In the cafeteria, it was my leg you tripped over.”

“Objection,” Mr. Dinkle yelled. “Nobody even asked her a question.”

“Sustained. If there are no more questions for this witness,” the judge said, “she may step down. Name your next witness, Mr. Stanislaw.”

“Your Honor,” Phillip said, “I call me to the stand.”