Authors: Greg Logsted
“Cody, I want
to show you something.”
We head over to Andy’s basement. I’m thinking he wants to show me something from the army: a souvenir, a photo album, or maybe even a weapon. When he opens the door I can feel the smile stretch across my face. It’s a room full of exercise equipment.
There are karate bags, weight and aerobic machines, free weights, and thick mats covering every inch of the floor. It’s a midsize gym that rivals some of the best health clubs I’ve ever seen.
“Wow, this is amazing!”
He laughs as we walk into the room but there’s something sad about the sound. There’s no true joy behind it. “I guess you can say I’m a bit of a compulsive. Most guys would be happy
with a weight bench and a few weights, but I’ve always got to take everything to the extreme.”
I move around the room; there’s equipment here that I’ve never even seen before.
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time and money putting this together. I guess it’s…maybe it’s too much. I don’t know, sometimes I think I would have been better off just messing with a car or something like that. Hey, check this out.” Andy opens a closet, reaches in, and a moment later music is pumping into the room. I look around and notice recessed speakers built into the walls and ceiling. The sound is rich and full.
I ease into a hydraulic leg press machine, check the pressure gauge setting, and begin pushing the plate forward in long, slow movements. “This place is great. My dad always said, if you’re going to do something, do it the best you possibly can.”
“Sounds like your dad likes things to be perfect.”
A short laugh escapes; it just pops out of my mouth like a shotgun shell. “Oh man, that’s an understatement.”
He gives me an odd look. “Looks like I touched a nerve.”
I stare at my feet resting on the plate. “What? No. It’s just that with his job it’s important that things are…um, done perfectly the first time.”
“What kind of work does your father do?”
I follow our standard response to this question. “He’s in the
import-export business. It’s important that he pay attention to the details.”
“What does he import and export?”
“Mainly electronics, computers, televisions, um…lamps, you know, that kind of stuff.”
He’s still looking at me. “The import-export business, huh? Funny, I once went into Pakistan using that as a cover. I don’t think we really fooled anyone. I could have used some advice from your father.”
I want to change the subject. I don’t like the way this is going. I feel like I’m balancing on top of my words. I’m worried if I pile them too high they’ll all slip out from under me. Without thinking I blurt out, “What about your father? Where does he live?”
He doesn’t say anything at first, just walks over to a rack of dumbbells and picks up one of the midsize weights. He curls it a few times; I notice that his small stump moves upward with the movement of his good arm. It looks like a dog’s wagging tail.
It occurs to me that his father might have died. Sometimes I say the stupidest things. My dad always told me to think before I speak.
After about ten curls he says, “My dad disappeared.”
“He disappeared? What do you mean…disappeared?”
He drops his weight back on the rack and grabs another heavier one and continues curling. “When Albert was four months old, I was about your age, maybe a little younger. Everything seemed
fine, everyone seemed happy. Then one day my dad went off to work and never came home.”
“What happened to him?”
He drops his weight back on the rack, this time more forcefully than the last. There’s a loud, metallic clang. “Nobody knows. It used to drive me crazy, the not knowing. Sometimes I think he just left us, went off someplace and started a brand-new life. Other times I think something terrible must have happened to him, maybe he picked up a bad hitchhiker or stopped to help the wrong person. I don’t know.”
I decrease the machine’s pressure and it hisses loudly, then I press the plate out a few more times. “So you never heard from him again?”
“That’s right. Not a word, a letter, or even an e-mail.”
I guess I should let it drop but I’m really curious; it’s my nature. “Did the police look for him?”
“In the beginning we talked to them but I don’t think they looked very hard. They seemed to have it in their heads that he left us.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
Andy reaches up to a chin-up bar and pulls himself up a few times with his one arm.
“Do you think he left you guys?”
He drops back to the mat and blows out a breath. “Well, one
way or another he left us. Right? The effect is the same, regardless of the reason.”
“Did you ever hire a private investigator?”
He gives me a look that I recognize. It’s the look you give someone when they’re asking way too many questions. I get off the leg press machine and move over to a box of karate weapons and start sifting through it. I’m surprised when he starts talking again.
“A few years ago I was with military intelligence. I ran a check on my dad: name, social security number, bank accounts, driver’s license, passport applications, everything I could think of. It all came up blank. He just…disappeared.”
“That’s weird, like a movie or something. How did Albert deal with it?”
Andy shakes his head. I can tell he really doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. I start thinking about new things to talk about, maybe karate or the army. I feel like a jerk for asking so many stupid questions.
I almost jump when he starts talking again. “Albert didn’t know anything different. Our life without Dad was his normal. I was his older brother, almost like a father, and his mother was just another struggling single mom. I think there were times when it was tough for him. Sometimes we’d talk about it all and I’d try to tell him…”
Andy stops talking. I turn around and notice Albert standing by the door. He’s got a strange expression on his face.
“Hey, we’re going into town later. Mom wants to know if you need anything.”
“No. I think I’m all set.”
“Okay, well, if you think of anything we’re leaving in about an hour. Oh, she baked some cookies, too. They’re on the kitchen counter.”
Albert turns and starts to walk away.
“Get back here!”
“Yeah?”
Andy seems aggravated. “Why didn’t you say hello to Cody?”
He shrugs. “Dunno, just didn’t, no big deal.”
“It
is
a big deal. Don’t be rude. Say hello to Cody and tell him you’re sorry.”
“Hey, Cody. Sorry about that.”
“That’s okay.”
Andy walks over to Albert. “Why don’t you come in and we’ll get a quick workout together.”
“I dunno, I’ve kinda got some homework and stuff.”
Andy places his arm around his little brother’s shoulders and leads him into the room. “Come on, it’s early, you can do your homework later. I was going to show some karate moves to Cody. I could use your help.”
He looks at me. “Albert’s been studying karate since he was about six. He’s a member of the dojo in town.”
It doesn’t take much more talking to get Albert to join us.
The three of us go at it together for about forty minutes. Albert surprises me. He’s in great shape and really knows his karate. He doesn’t seem to grasp my level of experience, but that’s okay. I let him show me moves I’ve known for years and I don’t get offended when he tries to “correct” me.
In the end it’s Andy who tires first. I grab three bottles of water from the small refrigerator in the corner. We head outside and sit in lawn chairs under a large tree.
Andy takes the cold water bottle and rolls it across his forehead. His shirt is soaked through with sweat and he suddenly seems very tired. “Man, I’m still not anywhere near one hundred percent yet. I guess getting blown up takes a lot out of you.”
For a passing second I almost tell them about the café bombing but realize that’s a box that can’t be closed once it’s opened. There’s a tall wall of secrets that will always surround me.
Andy stretches out on his chair, takes a long pull from his water bottle, and looks my way. “You know something? I never asked you about your first day of school. How was it? Any problems?”
“It was…um, it wasn’t really what I expected. I’m sure it will get better once I get used to it. I’ve got gym tomorrow. I’ve never been to a gym class before. That should be fun.”
Albert laughs. “Don’t count on it. Coach Dinatelli can be a real pain.”
Andy leans forward. “So school was kind of tough? What, the kids or the teachers?”
“Both. It’s all so new and different to me. I don’t know how to fit in with the other kids or how to talk to the teachers without making them mad. I don’t even know what to wear. How pathetic is that?”
Andy smiles. “Don’t know what to wear? That one seems easy to correct. Tell you what. Why don’t you go into town with Albert? I’m sure he can hook you up with some good clothes. What do you say, Al, can you help Cody out?”
He smiles. “Sure, why not. I could use a couple new shirts myself.”
No one laughs
as I walk down the hall. There’s no pointing or new nicknames. I don’t hear anyone calling me “Mr. Shorty Shorts.” Cell phone cameras are not snapping my picture; hushed voices are not mocking me.
I guess I’ve found the required costume. Special thanks go out to Albert. I am now officially dressed for the junior high experience. I blend right in. I feel camouflaged.
I’m walking past a huge mirror. There’s a sign above it that reads are you looking at an honor student? I stop and study my reflection. What comes to mind is “I’m looking at a stranger.” The long, baggy shorts, oversize T-shirt, baseball cap, and brightly colored sneakers might be what everyone else is wearing, but this isn’t me. I feel like an impostor. I’m used to my custom-fitted suits
and designer ties. I’m used to expensive leather belts and highly polished shoes. How am I ever going to get used to dressing like this?
Albert appears by my side and lightly punches my shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He eyes my reflection and the expression on my face. “Come on. The clothes look great.”
“I guess.”
He lowers his voice. “We’ve been over and over this. You look sharp. The clothes fit you fine. Relax.”
“I know. It’s just that I’m not used to dressing like this, that’s all.”
Albert rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, just try to loosen up, okay? You’re walking around like you stole your clothes out of somebody’s locker.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
“Gotta run. History with Mrs. Smith.”
He takes off, then stops and turns around. “Hey, what’s your next class?”
I smile. It’s the class I’ve been looking forward to all morning. “Gym.”
He shakes his head. “Well…good luck. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Oh, what lunch period do you have, A or B?”
“B.”
“Me too. Look for me…I’ll save you a seat. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I head for the gym but go down the wrong hall and wind up at the girls’ gym. I find my way to the right gym just as the bell rings.
A tall, dark-haired man wearing gray sweats and a Yankees baseball cap is standing in the gym with a couple students. His muscular arms are folded across his chest.
He looks up as I walk into the room and bellows, “May I help you?”
“Um, I’m new. My name’s Cody Saron. Here’s my paperwork.”
I walk over and hand him the form. He handles himself like an army drill sergeant.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry, like I said, I’m new. It took me a while to find the right gym.”
He studies the form in his hand. “There’s no excuse for being late. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Um, yes, sir.”
“You will refer to me at all times as either Coach or Coach Dinatelli. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
He stares at me, clearly aggravated.
“I mean, yes sir, Coach.”
He whistles and shakes his head. “Wow, I’ve been warned about your attitude and I’m telling you right here and now: I will not—I
do
not—tolerate insubordination. I hope you’re hearing me. Do you know what insubordination means?”
“Yes, sir.”
He’s suddenly incredibly angry. He looks like he’s about to grab me and throw me against the wall. He moves his face inches away from mine and shouts, “Yes, sir, what?”
The other kids in the room are just standing there, not daring to move or talk. I can tell they’re all terrified. There’s something obviously wrong with this guy. If he touches me, I’m going to head butt him, sweep his left knee, quickly break his right arm, and put him down hard. I’m not going to risk him getting up again.
I meet his gaze and stare him right in the eye. Very calmly and deliberately I reply, “Yes…sir…Coach.”
He smiles slightly and nods his head. “Okay…I see how this is going to play out. Do you have a school-issued gym uniform and a lock?”
I’m caught off guard by his quick change of attitude and the question. “Um, well, I’ve got a lock, shorts, and a T-shirt…Coach.”
“A school-issued uniform?”
“Um, no. I didn’t realize I needed one. I thought just a T-shirt and shorts would be okay…Coach.”
“Didn’t you read the handbook?”
I remember staring at Renee Carrington while Miss DeNitto plowed through it. “I kind of skimmed it…Coach.”
He shakes his head and looks up toward the ceiling. Then he turns to the kids standing next to us and sarcastically says, “He skimmed it. Did you hear that? He
skimmed
it. I guess he’s just too busy to read it properly.”
They nervously laugh with the coach until he points at a tall skinny kid. “Pogo Stick, tell Mr. Saron what happens when you forget your uniform.”
Pogo Stick seems embarrassed at having to be the bearer of bad news. “Uh, the coach has a couple girl uniforms. He makes you wear one of those.”
Great.
After the coach gives me the uniform, assigns me a locker, and I change, I’m the last one out of the locker room. I go outside to join the rest of the class. There’s about thirty of them and they’re all sitting on the grass. The coach is marching back and forth in front of them, holding a football in his hand.
As I walk out the door in my baby blue uniform with its pink trim, he yells, “Run, Saron! Nobody walks in my class!”
I run over to the group. A big kid with a face full of pimples and long greasy hair shouts, “Nice uniform!” The class starts to laugh.
The coach tucks the football under his arm and blows his whistle. “Listen up, everybody! This is Miss Cody Saron. She’ll be in our class from now on. She’s been going to a private school in jolly old England. Everybody say hello to our new Teacup.”
The class shouts, “Hello, Teacup!”
Great.
The coach points at an overweight kid in the front row. “Frankfurter!”
He lumbers to his feet. “Yes, Coach?”
“You know the drill. Lap time—one full lap around the field. We’ll give you a head start and if the whole class passes you, you’ll have to take another lap. If you can beat anyone in the class, you can rest while the class takes another lap. You ready, Frankfurter?”
The large boy sighs heavily. “Yes, Coach.”
He blows his whistle and shouts, “Okay, go!”
Frankfurter starts plodding along. He’s incredibly slow. It almost looks like he’s running underwater.
Coach turns his attention back to the class. He starts tossing the ball from one hand to the other. “Okay. Anybody care to guess what we’ll be playing today?”
Someone up front ventures, “Football?”
“Yes, Sherlock. Football. Specifically flag football. Count off by twos.”
He points at someone in the front and the guy calls out “One!”
the guy next to him shouts, “Two!” and then the following guy yells, “Three!”
Coach angrily throws the football at the guy who said “three.” It bounces off his leg. “I said by twos! That’s ‘one, two; one, two; one, two!’ I can’t believe this. Did you guys all have bowls of stupid for breakfast this morning?”
We quickly count off. I’m a two.
The whistle sounds again, and he points at a couple boxes. “Now collect your belts and flags. The ones will be wearing white flags and the twos red. After you secure your belts and flags, take a lap. Remember, if everyone doesn’t pass Frankfurter you all have to take a second lap. Tell Frankfurter he’s a red, which is kind of funny, if you think about it.”
I almost forgot about Frankfurter. I look for him and see him about halfway around the field. I can’t believe he’s only made it that far. Even though it doesn’t seem possible, it looks as if he’s actually running slower than before.
One by one we collect our flags and belts, and take off like bees leaving the hive.
Frankfurter is about three quarters of the way around the field when the first runner passes him. He calls out to Frankfurter, “You’re red!” The next fifteen or so runners also tell him he’s red. When I’m about to pass him, I glance his way. He’s breathing hard and sweating.
“You okay?”
He croaks, “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
A number of runners pass us. They each call out, “You’re red!” I continue to run next to Frankfurter. I can’t bring myself to pass him.
“My name’s Cody.”
He has a hard time replying but manages to spit out the words. My…name’s…Frank.”
“Has anyone ever lost one of these races to you?”
“Nope.”
“So you always run two laps?”
“Yup.”
I smile. “Today, you’re only going to run one.”
He looks at me in disbelief. “Don’t do…that. The class…will…hate you.”
I motion at the rest of the pack with my chin. “Those guys? They were all just laughing at me and calling me Teacup. They deserve to take another lap.”
“Coach will be…ticked off…big-time.”
I snicker. “Yeah, I know.”
Frank looks my way. A smile starts to spread across his face. “I think things…are going to get…a lot more…interesting around here.”
The two of us plod along toward the finish line. I make sure
Frank’s always a step or two in front of me. The closer to the finish line we get the louder the class’s taunts grow.
I glance over at the coach and his face is etched with barely suppressed rage.
There’s silence when Frank crosses the line first. Everyone looks over at the coach expecting an explosive reaction. We see the fire in his eyes. We see the clenching of his jaw and fists but we don’t hear the yelling and screaming that was expected.
He points at Frank. “Take a seat.”
Coach blows his whistle, then shouts, “Everybody else up! Apparently Teacup wants you all to take another lap, so get moving.”
There’s a collective groan. Then runners start flying from the hive once again. When I pass the coach he points at me. “Teacup, since you like running so much, you can take three laps.”
When I finish my laps I join the red team. They’re walking toward the end of the field, getting ready to receive a kickoff.
The coach jogs over to my side and starts yelling into my ear. “Teacup, you realize this is American football. Not soccer. Right?”
I look straight ahead. “Yes, Coach.”
“Do you know how to play American football?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“This is flag football, which means you do not—I repeat, do not—tackle your opponent. You just grab his flag. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Coach.”
He looks around at the other kids. “Let’s see what the little Teacup can do. Try not to break him, okay? I hear teacups are fragile.”
The teams line up for the kickoff and a few moments later I’m watching the ball sail through the air, tumbling end over end toward me. I catch it cleanly and quickly dodge to the side to avoid having someone grab my flag. Then I dodge and weave across the field, easily avoiding everyone who attempts to grab one of my flags. It’s all the same moves I use in karate.
When I’m about ten yards from the goal line I stop and place the ball in the arms of one of the opposing players. He runs about ten feet before someone pulls one of his flags.
Coach runs onto the field, blowing his whistle and shouting, “Teacup! What’s wrong with you? I thought you said you know how to play this game. The goal line’s over there.”
He’s frantically pointing at the goal line.
“Sorry, Coach.”
I let the other team run a few plays and move down the field before I intercept a pass. Once again I easily dodge and weave my way within ten yards of the goal line before placing the ball in another opponent’s arms.
This time Coach’s whistle sounds like an ear-piercing scream. He shouts, “Teacup, I know what you’re doing! Take two more laps!”
I run the laps and rejoin my team. They’re all in a huddle. I’m sweating and breathing heavily as I squeeze in with them. The quarterback’s grinning. “Hey, Teacup, if I give you the ball are you going to do the same thing with it?”
“The name’s Cody, and yeah, probably.”
He shakes his head. “Coach will go ballistic. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
There’s suppressed laughter all around me.
“Sounds like a good play to me. You sure you want to do that?”
“Yes.”
Frank’s giggling loudly.
“Okay, then. Let’s light this fuse and see what happens. Break huddle on three.”
We all chant together. “One, two, three!” Then we clap our hands and line up.
The quarterback takes the snap and laterals the ball over to me. I’m about to start running when I get a new idea. Standing over by the coach is one of my opponents. I throw the ball to him, a perfect spiral that lands right in his hands. He runs down the field for a touchdown.
Moments later I’m back in the hall, passing the huge mirror with its sign are you looking at an honor student? I glance at my reflection. I’m still dressed in the girls’ baby blue gym uniform
with pink trim. Coach Dinatelli is hauling me by my arm to the assistant principal’s office. He looks insanely angry, almost to the point of appearing comical.
Everyone stops to watch us. I struggle to keep my expression blank and to keep up with the coach’s quick pace. I could be wrong, but I seriously doubt this is what an honor student looks like.