“You promise to be good, right?” he says, giving her a stern look.
Makayla rewards him with two enthusiastic thumbs-up. “I’ll be better than good, Daddy. I’ll be awesome. Just like always.”
Sheesh.
She stands by the window and waves as our parents leave. I hear doors being shut, followed by an engine turning over. Mr. Dillon’s car sounds like it’s suffering from bronchitis.
The moment they’re gone, Makayla spins around. She’s wearing several rows of hair beads in patriotic red, white, and blue, and they rattle every time she moves. Since Makayla never seems to stop moving, it’s like she comes with her own soundtrack.
“So,” she says, lips pursed, “you’re supposed to make sure I get all my homework done.”
“Yeah, right.” I turn my wheelchair around and head for the computer, but Flub is blocking my way. I nudge him with my footrest, but he doesn’t move. He does, however, unleash a bottom burp that is definitely not silent.
“Ewwww,” squeals Makayla. “Excuse you.”
“It was the dog,” I say.
“Of course it was.” She bounds over to me in a few steps and slaps a hand on my shoulder. “I do that too, you know. . . . Blame the dog every time I make a smelly.”
“I’m not blaming him for anything. He’s sixteen years old. He’s incontinent.”
“In-conti-what?”
“Incontinent. Means he can’t control when he pees and poops.”
She gazes at the lump before us. “Don’t tell me. . . . I-N-C-,” she begins, spelling out the word carefully, “O-N-T-I-N-E-N-T. Incontinent!”
I’m not sure what she expects. Applause? Chocolate?
“What about you?” she says. “Can you control when you pee and poop?”
I turn bright red, which she seems to find very funny. “That’s none of your business.”
She runs across the room and pulls a book from her pink backpack. Then she hurries back to me, the book cover turned out so that I can read it: Gabriella Masterson and the Stolen Kiss.
“What the heck is that?” I ask.
“It’s the book I’m reading.” She hands it to me. “It’s amazing.”
I flip through the thin pages and stop at random. It’s the end of a chapter, and Gabriella is kissing a boy. Stolen or not, she seems to be enjoying it.
Makayla peers over my shoulder. “What is ‘sucking face’?”
I snap the book shut and hand it back. “Does your dad know you’re reading this?”
Clasping the book tightly in her hands, she presses it to her lips like she’s Gabriella and the book is, well, a boy. “Sure. He told the librarian it was okay for me to check out young adult novels.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “I guess he got tired of me asking questions like, ‘What does “sucking face” mean?’”
Flub must be getting tired of it too because he heaves himself off the floor and shuffles over to the sofa.
With him out of my way, I can finally get to the computer. One mouse click later, my alternate St. Louis appears: a perfect, pristine city without a single fourth-grade girl or incontinent dog.
“That looks cool,” Makayla says, pulling up a chair beside me.
“Don’t you need to read?” I ask, pointing to her book.
“Need to?” She shakes her head, hair beads rattling. “Not really. Anyway, I’m still stuck on the whole sucking face thing.”
“It means kissing!”
“Kissing?” Makayla mulls this over. Then, just as I’m about to add the final block to my replica of the Gateway Arch, she inhales sharply. “Do you think our parents are sucking face right now?”
My hand slips and I destroy a crucial support from the left side of the arch. “What?”
“Well, think about it: They’re way older than Gabriella and her boyfriend. And sucking face is just about all that Gabriella ever does. Well, that and getting straight A grades and saving polar bears from extinction.”
“Polar bears?”
Makayla nods. “Gabriella is really busy. Mostly sucking face.”
I try to repair my battered arch, but I’m distracted. It’s not like Minecraft takes much concentration, but the image of Mom and Mr. Dillon kissing is now firmly imprinted on my mind, and it’s not a pretty picture.
“Just think,” says Makayla, draping her arm over my shoulder. “We might be brother and sister soon.”
I make an involuntary gurgling sound and grab the headphones on the computer desk. They’re large and padded, and when I turn the volume up really loud, I can almost imagine that Makayla isn’t here at all.
Almost.
“Do you remember when we used to ride the bus together?” she shouts.
I pretend not to hear her.
“You and Alyssa used to make googly eyes at each other.”
Block by block, I rebuild the Gateway Arch.
“I remember the time she told me that she secretly wanted to date you.”
I pull the headphones off. “She said that?”
Makayla busts out laughing. “No! Actually, she said you were kind of annoying.”
“Uh . . .”
“But don’t worry. That’s what Gabriella Masterson says about every boy she ends up kissing.” Makayla plops her arm on my shoulder again and leans in close. “So there’s still hope for you.”
Flub, nestled on the sofa, belches loudly. Because of the timing, it’s like he’s responding to what Makayla just said and doesn’t think I stand a chance at all.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” says Makayla, sighing. “You’d better get rid of the dog or you won’t be sucking anyone’s face.”
I put the headphones back on and turn the volume up even higher. I can’t believe I told Mom that I didn’t want to be left alone. If this evening proves anything, it’s that being an only child comes with major perks.
Ten minutes with Makayla and I’m ready for a lifetime of solitude.
12
Schooled by a Fourth Grader
With headphones jammed against my head and music blaring, I don’t hear the front door open. Flub does, though. He raises his snout, flaps his jowls, and shows us his missing teeth. If a burglar ever attempts to rob us, Flub will be as useful as a broken house alarm.
Mom is first to enter the living room. There’s something weird about the way she’s smiling, like she’s ten years younger than when she went out earlier. I don’t like it.
Mr. Dillon is right behind her. Makayla races over to him, and he scoops her up and squeezes her tightly. “Did you have fun, honey?” he asks.
“Sure did,” she says. “Noah told me all about sucking face.”
Mom’s head whips around, her eyes on me like laser beams. “You did what?” she cries.
“Noah was worried that’s what you were up to,” Makayla continues. “You know, sucking each other’s faces.”
Mom and Mr. Dillon raise their hands at once. “No,” they say in unison.
“Absolutely not!” Mr. Dillon exclaims.
“Why would you even think that?” demands Mom, shaking her head in disgust.
I feel like I’m in a TV sitcom. I need a witty comeback, but what comes out of my mouth is, “Uh . . .”
“This is so unlike you,” Mom says, though I think she’s mostly trying to reassure Mr. Dillon. “Saying something like that to Makayla, even as a joke . . .” She lowers her voice as if no one will hear her. “She’s nine, Noah!”
“It’s okay,” says Mr. Dillon, grabbing his daughter’s book bag like they can’t escape fast enough. “We should probably be going, though. It’s a school night.”
Mom nods, but her eyes remain fixed on me. She looks completely humiliated.
I know exactly how she feels.
Makayla takes her bag from her father and swings it over her shoulder. Just before she leaves, she peers back at me. It’s like watching a tornado pause to admire the wreckage it has caused. “Well, see you later, Noah,” she says.
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Then, just like Alyssa on the school blacktop, she winks.
Before I can vow revenge, Makayla skips away. I hear her footsteps as she dances along the hallway.
Mom follows Mr. Dillon to the front door and apologizes once again for my bad influence. Then she storms back into the living room. “Well, that was awkward!”
“You don’t believe that stuff she was saying, do you?” I ask.
“Where else would Makayla hear an expression like ‘sucking face’?”
“It’s in the book she was reading. I saw it.”
“And you let her keep reading?”
“She said her dad lets her.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Mom presses her hands against her hips. “I needed you to be responsible tonight, Noah. I needed you to watch out for Makayla. I needed you to not sit at the computer with headphones on, shutting out the real world, just like always.”
I’ve got to say, I’m really missing the old Mom—the one with the black belt in conflict avoidance. This new version is totally unpredictable.
“I think you should know,” she continues, “I got a call from the health insurance company. They only cover physical therapy as long as you’re improving. If you don’t show progress, they’ll stop paying for it.”
Is this what Angelica meant when she said I needed to do better? I can’t believe she’d rat me out to the insurance people. She must’ve really wanted me to talk about my feelings.
“Looking on the bright side,” I say, “no more PT would save us a couple hours a week.”
Mom slams her fist against the wall, making me jump. “This isn’t a joke, Noah!”
I haven’t seen her this worked up since before the accident. But she’s not the only one who’s angry. “I know!” I shout. “I’m the one in a freaking wheelchair, remember?”
And just like that, the old Mom is back. She slumps against the doorframe like a deflated balloon. “I just . . .”
She lets the thought float away. A black belt cannot waste energy on a lost cause.
From the corner of my eye, I can still see my perfect Minecraft world on the computer monitor. It’s so close, but it has never felt farther away. Or less real.
“You just what?” I ask quietly.
She breathes in through her teeth with a hissing sound. “I’m scared, honey,” she says. “I’m scared they’ll cut off your therapy, and you’ll never get better. I’m doing everything I can to support you, but you’re not holding up your end of the bargain. I guess what I’m really saying is . . . I can’t do this alone anymore.”
Her words hit me with the force of the poopy kickball in PE. Is she still talking about me? Or is this about Mr. Dillon now? Is that why she’s hanging out with him, because I’m “not holding up my end of the bargain”?
I can’t undo the past, but I need to fix the present. With Dad gone, we’re all we’ve got, Mom and me. Surely she can see that.
And if she doesn’t? Well, I guess I need to show her.
13
Dee-Dub Lacks Social Graces
I invite Dee-Dub to my house after school on Friday. He pulls up at five o’clock and gets out of the car with both of his parents. They shadow him as he walks up the short path, like they’re afraid he might get lost.
Mom hovers at the front door, eager to welcome my mysterious new friend. Apart from Alyssa, my only visitors over the past month have been Justin and Carlos. They stopped by when the Little League season was winding down. I guess they figured I’d want to hear about the team. Or maybe they thought I’d be secretly pleased that Logan was in a pitching funk. But they were wrong. I just felt jealous of all of them. When they left after fifteen minutes, I didn’t try to stop them. Without baseball, we had nothing to talk about.
I wonder if Dee-Dub and I will find things to talk about now that we’re not at school.
Mom answers the door, so she’s first to get a full-on look at the Hardesty family. Well, not all of it, because there are two younger siblings acting crazy in the SUV parked outside. But the three people before her are certainly an impressive sight.
“You must be Mrs. Savino,” says Mr. Hardesty, shaking her hand. His wife shakes Mom’s hand too. Finally, it’s Dee-Dub’s turn. Looking lost, he pumps Mom’s arm up and down hard enough to give her whiplash.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Mom says, massaging her hand.
“This is Dee-Dub,” says Mrs. Hardesty, beaming.
“Dee-Dub?” says Mom.
Oops. I probably should’ve warned Mom about this. She may be a little confused.
“It’s short for Double-Wide,” explains Mr. Hardesty. “That’s what his friends call him because he’s so big.”
Mom’s face is frozen in a horrified smile. Dee-Dub’s parents don’t seem to notice, though, and smile right back, as if comparing a child to a mobile home is the most natural thing in the world.
“You never told me your house is on Hall of Fame Place, Noah,” says Dee-Dub.
Mom makes space for me alongside her.
“It’s just a block of Elizabeth Avenue,” I point out.
“Not just any block,” says Mr. Hardesty in a scolding tone. “Yogi Berra grew up on this street, and Joe Garagiola.” He puffs out his cheeks so that his head resembles an over-inflated soccer ball. “Two Hall of Famers from a single city block. It’s remarkable.”
Yeah, remarkable. And I’m reminded of it every time a bunch of tourists comes along to take pictures and every time I wheel myself over the shiny black plaques in the sidewalk—memorials to those talented boys whose legs worked so much better than mine.
“Bet you’re a Cardinals fan, aren’t you?” Mr. Hardesty continues.
Seeing Dee-Dub’s dad makes me think of my own father and all the times we went to Busch Stadium. Am I still a fan if I never go to a game again?
“It’s hard to live in St. Louis and not support the Cardinals,” Mom says, filling the silence.
“We’re already discovering that,” says Mrs. Hardesty, laughing. She places her hand on Dee-Dub’s shoulder and gives a squeeze. “We’ll let you boys get on, then. When should we come back?”
“How about a couple hours?” says Mom. “I’ve got pizzas for dinner.”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Hardesty spins around as an ear-splitting shriek comes from the SUV. “Kids!” she says.
Dee-Dub waves to his parents as they leave. It’d be kind of sweet if he weren’t the size of an average high school senior.
“I’m taking Flub out for a walk,” Mom tells me. “You’ll be all right, won’t you?”
She never usually asks me that. It’s almost like she’s looking for permission to go.
“We’re fine,” I say. “I’m not sure that Flub is, though.”
Flub belches in agreement.
As Mom drags our elderly dog outside, I lead Dee-Dub into the living room. When he catches sight of the computer monitor, he rushes forward.
“You play Minecraft!” he exclaims. He grabs Mom’s office chair and wheels it in front of the screen. Placing one hand on the keyboard and the other on the mouse, he begins to explore my city at warp speed.
“Nice,” he murmurs, checking out the skyscrapers. “Cool river too.”
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s called the Mississippi. It’s, like, five miles away.”
He comes to a dead stop and points at the screen. “What’s that?”
“It’s the Gateway Arch.”
“Really? The proportions are all wrong. Yours is a semicircle.” He zooms in and out so quickly I feel motion sick. “The real Gateway Arch is a flattened catenary arch. Plus, the height is precisely the same as the distance between the base of the legs.”
In the time it takes me to say “Oh,” Dee-Dub obliterates the Gateway Arch. Seriously, in one moment, I have a recognizable replica of St. Louis’s most famous monument; in the next, he’s zapped the whole thing into outer space.
“W-w-what are you doing?” I ask, but it’s too late. Dee-Dub is
like a black hole, and my arch has just been swallowed.
Then he begins to rebuild. Not block by careful block, but in waves, as if the new Gateway Arch is being constructed by a gazillion microscopic ants.
“Uh, Dee-Dub?”
“Yeah?”
“How much time do you spend on Minecraft?”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen, and he doesn’t slow down. “As long as I like, once all my homework’s done.”
“How long does that take?”
“About ten minutes. Sometimes less.”
The arch grows upward as fast as Jack’s beanstalk. That was made with magic beans, though. What’s Dee-Dub’s secret?
“You’re pretty smart, huh?” I say.
“I like problems that have a clear and quantifiable solution,” he replies.
It’s lucky we’re alone. An answer like that might not go down well at school.
Mom must be standing just outside the house, because I can hear her talking. For a moment, I wonder if she overheard what Dee-Dub just said and found it funny. But then I hear Mr. Dillon’s voice too.
So that’s why she wanted to take Flub out—so she could spend more quality time with her new best friend. And from the sound of it, he’s coming inside with her right now.
I wheel backward and slam the living-room door shut. I may not be able to keep Mr. Dillon out of our house, but I can at least put a door between us.
“Are you all right?” Dee-Dub asks without looking at me. “You got quiet.”
When Angelica told me to share my feelings with someone, I’m not sure she had Dee-Dub in mind. He probably isn’t even listening. Maybe that’s what makes it easier to open up to him.
“It’s my mom,” I say as laughter fills the hallway. “She’s made friends with this guy down the street, and I don’t like him.”
“Ah,” says Dee-Dub, nodding. “Does his dog pee in your yard?”
“Huh? No. I don’t think he’s got a dog.”
“Does he double-park his car?”
“How would I know?”