Say It Ain't So (17 page)

It all made perfect sense. Who had something to gain from Davis getting kicked off the team? Who had been praying for his big chance to be a starting catcher? Who had the means, the motive, and the opportunity? All the same guy. My best friend.

It felt so weird to think it. The best suspect here was without a doubt Mike. But Mike wasn't the type. And Davis
was
the criminal type. He smelled bad for sure. Shins and all. Who knows? Maybe Davis was even there when I was attacked. Maybe he was one of the ninjas! He was there to work on his spy gig, posing as a guy from Griffith. It all made perfect sense!

Except for one thing.

Davis had been hanging out with Other Mike the whole time.

Unless that too was a lie.

My head was spinning. Was it possible that not just one but two Mikes were lying to me? Both caught up in a complicated web of lies? Both were lying liars who just wanted to keep lying out of their lying faces? Who was I supposed to turn to? Who could I trust?

Just then, my dad stuck his head in the door.

“Something troubling you, son?” he said.

“Oh, hey, Dad,” I said. “Kind of.”

“Is it your eye? Sheesh. That looks pretty bad. Mom said it was a baseball. Are you telling us the truth? It looks sort of the size and shape of a fist.”

“Yeah, well, a baseball
is
the size and shape of a fist, if you haven't noticed.”

“Oh, I've noticed,” he said. “But I've also had a few shiners in my day. I know what they look like.”

“Shiners?”
I said.

“Yeah, you know—a black eye. From getting punched. I'm not sure why they call them shiners. They just do.”

“You've had a few shiners in your day?” I asked. I was genuinely curious. It was hard to imagine my mild-mannered doctor father getting in a fistfight. I wasn't trying to change the subject away from
my
shiner. Okay, maybe I was a little. But I wanted to hear the story too.

“Yeah, you know,” he said. “Just stupid fights. One time a kid kept calling me String Bean. I used to be really skinny, you know?”

“I find that hard to believe,” I said. Dad wasn't fat, but he had a pretty sizable belly, which hung around his waist like an overstuffed pillow.

“Yeah,” Dad said. “I do like cake.” He patted his belly.

“Calling you String Bean made you so mad that you hit a guy?”

“Well, kind of,” he said. “I pushed him. Before I knew what happened, he punched me in the eye. Gave me a nasty shiner.”

“How old were you?” I asked.

“Oh, about your age,” he said. “I was too embarrassed to tell Grandpa. So I made up a lie about tripping and falling onto an orange.”

I laughed. “You are a terrible liar,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “That's one trait I wish you'd inherited instead of just my dashing good looks. You're too good at lying. It's troublesome.”

“Not lying,” I said, lying. I pointed to my eye. “Just a baseball. I've been helping Mike practice. Throwing him some cheese.”

“You know I threw some serious cheese back in my day?” he said.

“So you claim,” I said.

“My best pitch, though, was the Vulcan change.”

I looked at him skeptically. He held his hand up like the guy from
Star Trek
. Two fingers together on each side with a space in the middle like scissors fingers.

“You're making that up,” I said.

“Total real pitch,” he said. He grabbed a ball off my dresser and sort of lodged it in there and went into a windup. “Live long and prosper!” he yelled, pretending to throw the pitch.

“You are an idiot,” I said with a smile.

“It's the batter who looks like an idiot,” he said. “Works every time.” He raised his arm like an umpire. “Strike three with the Vulcan change! The crowd goes wild!” Then he got all serious out of nowhere in that weird dad way. “You know, you can talk to me about anything,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.” I paused. I wanted to tell him. But I couldn't
tell
him. I tried to keep it vague. “So listen,” I said. “If, let's say, there was maybe someone that you trusted—like really trusted—but you maybe suspect that maybe they did something, like, kind of bad—like maybe pretty bad—what would you do?”

Dad paused. He sighed. He rubbed his hand across his dome. “I think you know the answer, Len,” he said.

“You tell someone?” I said.

“No,” he said. “You talk to them about it.”

This was not the answer I expected.

“Listen,” he said. “If it's something serious, like this person is hurting themselves or doing something major, then, yeah, you tell a grown-up. You tell me right now. But if it's something that a friend is doing—I'm sorry,
maybe
doing—and you need to find out, you talk to them about it. Man to man.”

It sounded so heavy in my heart. I knew it had to be true. It was also the first time Dad had ever referred to me as a man. Felt pretty good.

“Oh,” Dad said. “I almost forgot. There was a message on the machine for you from before. Some kid from school.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Kyle Webb,” he said.

“Weird,” I said.

“No,” he said.
“Webb.”

“You're hilarious, Dad,” I said in a tone that I hoped made it pretty clear I was kidding.

Dad seemed to not get it, though. He grinned like he was really proud of himself. “I know,” he said. “So who is this Kyle Weird?” He handed me the piece of paper he had taken the message on. It had Kyle's name and phone number.

“Skinny guy. Plays first base. No idea why he called me.”

“Gonna call him back?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Just don't call him String Bean,” Dad said.

“Got it,” I said.

Dad finally left the room. I had no idea what Kyle wanted or even how he got my number. He
was relatively new to school—not someone I grew up with or spent a lot of time hanging out with or anything. Why was he calling me? What did he want? I would have to wait to find out. It was time to call Mike. Man to man.

I dialed the number I knew so well. It rang a few times. Mike's sister, Arianna, picked up the phone. “Hello?” she said.

“Is Mike there?” I asked.

“Who may I say is calling?” she said.

“Ari, it's Lenny.”

“Lenny who?” she asked.

“Lenny Norbeck,” I said.

“Lenny Norbeck who?” she said.

“Lenny Norbeck, the person who is going to make your life miserable if you don't give your brother the phone, that's who!” She was seriously the most annoying person in the world.

“Sheesh,” she said. “Who pooped in your milk?”

After a few seconds Mike was back on the line. “Hello?” he said.

“Hey, it's Len,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “No one else gets Arianna as angry as you.”

“Why does she hate me so much?” I said.

“Probably your face,” Mike offered helpfully. “So, listen, didn't you just call, like, five minutes ago? What is going on here?”

“Mike,” I said. “About the whole thing with Kyle's dad's phone … is there something you want to tell me?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Not really.”

“Nothing?” I asked.

“Listen, Lenny,” he said, “if you're accusing me of something, just go ahead and accuse me.”

There was a pause and then I blurted it out.

“I think you took Mr. Webb's phone and put it in Davis's shin guard to get Davis kicked off the team.” There was no response, so I kept talking. “I totally get it,” I said. “Davis is a jerk; plus, you wanted to be the starting catcher. No one can blame you, really. Two birds, one stone.”

There was silence on the other end. Then Mike spoke slowly, in a voice shaky with anger. “The only bird here, Lenny,” he said, “is the one I'm giving you.”

“What?” I said.

“I'm giving you the bird into the phone. You can't see it. Trust me. I am.”

“Why are you doing that?” I said.

“Why do you think?” he said. “You're supposed to be my best friend! We've been friends our whole lives! And you think I'm a thief?”

“I'm not saying you're a thief,” I said. “Just that you had one second where you, uh—”

“Stole something? Because that kind of is the definition of a thief.”

“I think you knew they'd find it. I think you knew Mr. Webb would get it back. It wasn't about stealing. You didn't even keep the phone.”

“Because I didn't
take
the phone!” he screamed. “I'm not a thief and I'm not the kind of person who would frame a teammate to get a starting job. And you know what else I'm not?” he said.

“A ballerina?” I ventured, going for a joke.

“Your friend,” he said. “I'm not your friend. Not anymore. Good-bye, Lenny. Don't call back.”

My head was reeling. What did Mike mean that he wasn't my friend anymore? Sure, it wasn't the first time he had said something like that. It wasn't the first time he had said
exactly
that. When you're friends with someone for as long as we've been friends, you fight sometimes. And then five minutes later you make up. But this felt different. This didn't feel like when we were six and we'd get into a huge argument about who got to be Spider-Man. This was serious stuff. I had accused Mike of something pretty bad. And he was pretty mad. And I was pretty sad. Even rhyming wasn't going to cheer me up.

I was just zoning out in my room, lying on the bed. I still had the piece of paper with Kyle's number on it. I doubted he would cheer me up. Talking to Kyle was just about the most depressing thing
you could do. But what's the expression? Misery loves company? I sure was miserable. Might as well have some company.

I dialed the number. “Hello?” said a glum voice on the other end. It sounded like a talking rain cloud, so I knew it was Kyle.

“Hey, Kyle,” I said. “It's Lenny Norbeck. You called?”

“Oh, hey, Lenny, yeah,” he said.

“Um, did you have a, uh, reason for calling or …?”

“I don't know,” he said. “The rumor around school is that you're some sort of detective.”

“Yeah?” I said. “Well, not anymore. The detective game doesn't lead to anything but trouble.” I thought about telling him how Mike was mad at me, but I didn't want to drag Kyle into this. More to the point, I didn't want to drag Kyle's dad back into this. If he found out it was really Mike and not Davis who took the phone, well, let's just say there would be trouble. More trouble. Maybe Mike didn't want to be my friend anymore, but I still didn't want to have Mr. Webb on his case.

“Too bad,” Kyle said.

My curiosity kicked in. “Why?” I said. “You have a case for me?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Sort of …”

“I'm listening.”

“I thought you were done being a detective.”

“Maybe I am, maybe I'm not,” I said. I didn't want trouble, but I did want a distraction. Kyle's case might be something interesting. Something different to think about.

“Well, I'm not really sure if this is a case for a detective, but I just … I don't know who else to call.”

“Spill it,” I said, going back to my detective voice.

“Well, I want to get my parents back together. The divorce, Lenny, it's killing me. I know they can get back together. I just know it.”

I didn't want to say anything. I had seen enough movies to know that this kind of thing never works. Kids can't save their parents' marriages and no one ever has a cell phone signal when a bad guy is around. These are the two things I've learned from movies. But I didn't want to say anything. Kyle seemed so desperate. I just made a noncommittal
um-hurm
sort of noise.