Lizzie sighed. “Honestly, Willie, it's no big
deal. I already know boys are gross.” She grinned reassuringly, wrapped a couple of tissues around her thumb and first finger, and slowly reached up to pinch the end of one cotton thing. With great care, she eased it out of my nose. When it was in the clear, she let out a long breath. “See,” she said, “no problem.” She dropped the bloody cotton and tissues on the ground, got new tissues, and repeated the whole process with my other nostril. Then she said, “Okay, sir, it looks as though, with proper nursing care, you should pull through.”
“Thank you,” I said weakly.
“Don't mention it. By the way,” Lizzie said, “I like your friend Dodger. I can't believe you have a real imaginary friend! I mean, a real friend who's imaginary. I mean, aâwell, a blue chimp with powers! This is so cool! How did it happen?”
“Well, it's kind of a secret. I mean, I don't know if Dodger would want me to tell.”
“Come on, Willie. Didn't he already show himself to me?”
I wasn't sure what I should do. And how did I know I could trust Lizzie? I knew Dodger thought she was special, but that didn't meanâ
“Will, you can trust me. Dodger can be our own private secret! And I can keep a secret. That's what friends are for, isn't it?”
Just then, the moms looked up and saw us, so I was saved from answering. Lizzie picked up the bloody little pile from the lawn and we started walking across the yard. When we got to the back porch, where my dad keeps the garbage cans, she slipped the whole thing behind her back into one of the cans without even breaking stride. I had to admit, it was a slick move.
Man, my life was getting weird.
Grounded
I ALMOST GOT THROUGH the living room without my mom noticing my nose situation. I mean, she looked at me and Lizzie when we came inside to say hello, but she was figuring out some kind of big PTA budgeting problem on the calculator, so I don't think anything registered right away. Unfortunately, Amy was lying on the couch doing her homework, and she noticed instantly as I tried to glide toward the stairs without attracting too much close attention. “Oh, Willie!” Amy shrieked. “What happened to your nose? It's horrible!”
That got Mom's attention. She jumped up,
grabbed me by both arms, and said, “Are you all right? Oh, my buddy!” I could have died of humiliation right there on the spot.
I mumbled, “I'm fine, Mom. It's just aâ”
Before I could finish, Mom pulled my head to her chest in a bone-crushing hug. I caught a momentary glimpse of Amy smirking with mischievous satisfaction, and then the flood came. A thick gout of blood splashed onto the white sweater Mom was wearing. She pushed me to arm's length and then started yelling. She yelled while Lizzie tried to explain that we had just been playing catch; Lizzie looked down at the floor and bit her bottom lip. Mom yelled some more while she dragged me to the bathroom and stuffed twisted tissues up my nose. She yelled while she dragged me down to the laundry room and poured stain remover all over the front of the sweater. She stopped yelling long enough to tell Lizzie, “William has to be careful when he playsâhe's very delicate!” I could have sworn I saw Lizzie rolling her eyes at that one as Mom turned back to me and asked, “Why weren't you wearing your batting helmet?” I said, “Mom, people don't wear batting helmets to
play catch.” She fired back, “They do if they plan to use their face as a mitt!” On that embarrassing note, Lizzie and her mother left. Lizzie gave me a little look of sympathy as she stepped out the door, like you would give to your puppy as you were dropping it off in the kennel. But at the same time, I had this feeling she was trying not to laugh. Then Lizzie was gone, and Mom yelled some more. She told me that, since I kept getting hurt whenever I tried to go anywhere, I was grounded until I “earned back her trust.” I tried pointing out to her that I had actually injured my forehead while closed up in the safety of my own room, but it didn't matter.
When your mom is as ridiculously overprotective as mine, nothing you say matters.
My nose was throbbing. I always hated to let my mom know I was in pain, because I didn't want her to decide I needed emergency surgery every time I had a hangnail, but I gave in this time and asked her for some aspirin. She told me that aspirin thins the blood, so she couldn't give it to me while I was bleeding. So I staggered upstairs to my room with a gigantic handful of tissues and a baggie full
of ice cubes, and lay down on my bed. Staring over the ice bag at the ceiling, I thought about my confusing day. I had really been having fun with Dodger and Lizzie. Also, it was a relief that someone else had seen Dodger, because truthfully, I had been a tiny bit worried that I was going crazy. Even though I couldn't believe I was thinking it, I wanted to play with the two of them again.
It figured: for the month after Tim left, when I had zero friends and zero to do, I had been in no trouble at all. Now that I might have things to do and people (well, a girl and a blue chimp, but still) to do them with, I was probably going to be grounded until I died of old age.
Suddenly Dodger was sitting in the swivel chair at my desk. He swung to face me. “So, Willie, I think our first practice went pretty well. That Lizzie has some real potential.”
I forgot all about my troubles for a second, glad to be talking baseball. “As what? A second baseman? A catcher? What do you think?”
Dodger snorted. “Dude, as a buddy for us! She's funny, and she has a cool accent. And she isn't all girly about blood.”
Which, I had to admit, seemed to be a key quality if you were hanging out with Dodger.
“Plus, she sticks up for you. AND she passed the Special Person Test with the garbage on the ground. Wow, am I glad Part One of the Three-Part Plan is, like, Mission Accomplished. Now we can concentrate on getting your mom to trust you more. You're pushing eleven years old, dude. It's time for you to cut loose from the old apron strings! Get your groove on! Find your freedom! Climb every mountain! Ford every stream! Roam the world in search of adventure!”
“Uh, Dodger, when we got home, my mom saw my nose. She kinda flipped out. I'm grounded. Now I can't even roam the
block
in search of adventure!”
Dodger laughed. “Excellent,” he said.
“Dodger, did you hear what I said? I'm grounded. I can't leave the house. Look around youâdo you see any mountains or streams in here? Or any freedom?”
He scanned my room. I noticed that his eye patch was back in place, and so was his usual uniform of surfer shorts. “Nope, bud, all I see is apron
strings. Lots and lots of apron strings. But that's good. The tighter a string is, the easier it is to cut.”
What was that, some kind of chimpanzee riddle? A wave of pain flowed through my nose, and I lost my train of thought before I could ask. In the meantime, Dodger looked at the closet and caught sight of this dry-erase easel board that I had used to teach Amy her alphabet when she was in kindergarten. He dragged it out, rummaged around in the little attached plastic case for a marker, uncapped one, and started lecturing me:
“Willie, what we need to do is find a way for you to face danger and prove to your mom that you can take care of yourself.”
“Well, couldn't I just avoid danger? If I stay safe for a while, won't that show her I can ⦠I don't know ⦠be safe?”
“Too slow, dude. You've spent ten years being safe, and where has it gotten you? Other guys your age are out playing football with no helmets, helping their dads use Weedwackers and lawn mowers, burning stuff with magnifying glasses. And here you are, chillin' with a chimp. No, little man, it's definitely time for action.
“Anyway, as I was saying, I have brainstormed a list of excellent danger sources.” He started writing as he listed them. “They are:
1.
Poison
2.
Cliff
3.
Explosion
4.
Fire
5.
Electrocution
“Now, the trick is, we need to come up with a way you can prove you're careful and trustworthy while doing something dangerous. So I think we can rule out POISON, because I can't think of anything good you can do with it. Same goes for ⦠let's see ⦠CLIFF ⦠and EXPLOSION ⦠ooh, and ELECTROCUTION is never any good. So the only one left is your answer: FIRE. We are going to win your mom over by harnessing the terrible power of FIRE!”
Jeepers, this sounded promising. Why hadn't I thought of impressing my mother with a nice bonfire? Or perhaps a lovely volcano in our backyard? Why didn't I just handcuff myself to my bed, throw
away the key, and save my mom the trouble of grounding me for life? “Dodger?” I asked. “Couldn't I just wish for my mom to trust me? And you could, like, make it happen?”
Dodger frowned and said, “Dude
, you've
got to trust
me
. Just think: You've only known me for, like, two days, and I've already solved a third of your life's problems. So let's do this my way. I ask you, what could possibly go wrong?”
Ha.
Before I could even begin to list the many, many things that could go wrong when one combined the concept of Dodger with the concept of fire, my bedroom door swung open. My mom stepped in, took one look at the dry-erase board, and started screaming.
The next day at school, I tried to explain the whole ugly scene to Lizzie, who refused to stop laughing. She especially loved the part where my mom saw Dodger's list of excellent danger sources and went completely bonkers. I kept saying, “What's so funny?” and, “I'm serious!” None of that had any effect at all, though. Lizzie would just get quiet for a brief moment and then start in
again, like, “The thing your mum said about using your face as a mittâthat was completely brilliant! My mum and I laughed for about three blocks. I mean, not about your nose getting smashed or anything, just about your mum's reaction. So, are you up for some baseball training after school, then? You still need to practice thumping the ball with the bat before the weekend.”
I don't know which part of “I'm grounded” she didn't understand.
When I got home, my mom and sister were out at their weekly mother-daughter Brownies meeting. My dad was home, though, working like he always does in his basement office. He ordered me to go right to my room and do all of my homework before my mom got home at five o'clock. As he put it, “Please get your work doneâand don't break anything. Mom will kill us both if you get in any more trouble this week.” So, being the good boy that I am, I went straight to my room and did my homework. After a while I got tired of this really boring fractions worksheet I was doing and started daydreaming about how great life could be if Dodger gave me three wishes. I pictured myself
driving my very own sports car up the driveway of my mansion, headed for my private video arcade for a few quick days of gaming on the way to Yankee Stadium for my major league debut. The radio was tuned to a sports station, and the announcers were discussing my amazing abilities:
Well, Jon, it's a beautiful day at the stadium today, a perfect day for the youngest shortstop in big-league history to begin his Hall of Fame career.
Yes, Susan, this should be one to remember. Willie Ryan has already earned the awed respect of a nation with his incredible two-week climb through the minor leagues. It's hard to believe that just two Tuesdays ago, this kid was a batboy for a single-A farm team.
You know, Jon, it really is hard to believe. Baseball historians will be talking about this for decades, trying to understand it. Me, I'm just trying to pick out my favorite Willie Ryan moment so far. Was it the three home runs he hit in that last game in Philadelphia?
Maybe, but that wasn't much of a challenge for him, since he only had his eyes closed when he hit those. I kind of liked the wild pitch when he stole first, second, third, and home before the catcher even had time to pick up the ball.
I have to admit, that wasn't bad. But what about the time when he was playing left field and jumped twenty feet straight up to spear that line driveâwithout a mitt?
Yes, folks, it's been an amazing half-month since fifth grade let out for summer vacation. And now a nation awaits this game. A gasp goes up from the crowd: Willie's personal batboy, Derek Jeter, has just come onto the field carrying the young star's equipment. The question on everyone lips is this: If things go well today, do you think Willie Ryan's mom might let him take off that stupid helmet?
I rubbed my eyes and tried to get back to my worksheet. But I couldn't stop thinking. I had to plan my wishes just right if I was going to fix everything and give myself a perfect life.
Suddenly, I heard a
POOF!
This was followed by some gruesome munching noises. I turned toward my bed and was startled to see Dodger sitting there with his whole forearm in a white bag. There was powdered sugar all around his mouth, and when he pulled his hand out of the bag I found out why: He was holding a fistful of doughnut holes.
I love doughnut holes. He held out the bag to me and said, “Want some? Go ahead. Just reach in and wish for doughnut holes.”
Trying hard not to think of all the fur that was probably stuck to the inner walls of the bag, I reached in and felt around. The bag was empty. “Ha-ha, very funny,” I said. “You know, I don't go around tricking
you.
”
Dodger's eyes widened. “What are you talking about, dude? Give me that bag!” I did, and he shoved his hand in again. It came out holding a chocolate-covered banana. He winked at me and ate the entire thing in two huge gulps. Well, he didn't exactly eat the whole thing; about half of the chocolate ended up smeared on his face. “The food is there for you, buddy,” he said. “You've just gotta want it.”
I grabbed the bag back from him and reached in again. It was empty! I said, “I wish this stupid bag was full of chocolate doughnut holes!” I felt the bag expand in my hand, peeked in, and saw a nice pile of steaming-fresh doughnut holes. Now this was more like it! Dodger watched with amusement as I shoved about nine of those babies in my
mouth at once. I nearly choked, but they were so good, I just couldn't stop myself. These were the best doughnut holes I had ever tasted! They were perfect! I could eat them forever and not get tired of them.
I grabbed handful after handful, popping them in my mouth at top speed. For about a minute, I was totally satisfied. Then I started thinking,
Wouldn't the doughnut holes be better with milk? I wish there were some milk in the bag.
With a strange slurping noise, the bag started getting heavier and heavier. I looked in and saw that the doughnut holes were now floating in a rapidly rising sea of milk. Oh, manâthat wish hadn't quite come out right. I looked over at Dodger, who was smirking at me.