Soar (5 page)

“JERWAL, HOW WAS
your day?”

Jerwal glows and beeps.

“Yeah, mine too.”

I'm in our kitchen getting dinner ready. I have a few no-fail menus. Tonight I'm making chicken sausages with sautéed apples and salad, and multitasking this with homework.

The three-paragraph essay. Ideas to write about
:

◆ Living with Robots (Jerwal's favorite)

◆ What Eagles Can Teach Us (Baby's favorite)

◆ The Intense Power of Baseball to Transform Life as We Know It (my favorite)

◆ Being a New Kid at School (probably the teacher's favorite)

I get the sausages out, slice the apples. I take a minute to put up my robot poster that I made for the fourth grade science fair. I couldn't go to the fair, I was too sick, but Jerwal went and he was a big hit. On the poster, I summed up Isaac Asimov's first law of robotics: “A robot must protect humans and may not injure them.”

I showed pictures of good robots through the ages, including Jerwal. I had photos of how Walt and I built him. I won third prize and got the school's Inspiration Award.

Jerwal is the ultimate robot who protects and doesn't injure. He was there for me when I was in the hospital. I told him everything, even things I wouldn't tell Walt. I told him every time I was afraid, every time I got side effects from the medicine they gave me. He'd glow in the dark, which was comforting. A robot is an excellent listener.

The nurses got used to this. One nurse told him about her cheating ex-boyfriend, and Jerwal glowed at just the right times and beeped sensitively.

I put out all my medicine on the counter—I have eight kinds of pills and I need to take them on time.
My phone dings three times a day to remind me, then Jerwal makes a backup noise so I won't forget.

My phone buzzes. It's Aunt Charity calling.

Her worried face fills the screen.

I gulp meds. “Hi,” I say. I click so she can see me.

“You look pale,” she announces.

“I'm fine. Really.”

“Are you napping?”

“I was about to take one.” This is absolutely true. I was going to take a twelve-minute nap like John F. Kennedy did. He was a famous power napper even in the White House.

I tell her about school.

“Are you using your antiseptic?”

I nod.

“How is your blood pressure?”

“I take the medicine.” High blood pressure is a side effect of the medicine I'm taking.

“And where is your father?”

I walk the phone over to the stove and show her the great dinner I made.

“Sausage,” she announces, “has additives and—”

“It's organic.” I have to eat healthy—doctor's orders.

Walt, thankfully, comes in the door. “And have you had a bowel movement, young man?”

“Not since last month.”

She gasps.

“He's kidding!” Walt grabs the phone and glares at me. “Seriously, we are doing well.”

I'm glad to have an aunt, even though she can drive me this side of crazy.

“I think we should talk daily,” she says.

I shake my head, which is Jerwal's sign to shake his head, too. I do a little robot dance. Jerwal jerks his arms up and down.

“Maybe we should talk weekly, Char. How are you?”

She doesn't want to talk about that. But then she says, “Tell Jeremiah they're lucky to have him at that school.”

She means it, too. I shout, “Thanks, Aunt Charity.”

Call over.

Walt and I eat in the kitchen with the Reds game on the radio.

Don't mess up, you guys—it's Franny's big day.

Walt's loving the dinner.

“How are the robots at work, Walt?”

“You can see for yourself.” He opens his backpack, takes out an orange ball with a flat side, and puts it on the floor.

“That's a robot?”

“Yep. This is SARB. Search and Report Back. We're developing them for police and fire departments.” Computer out, he types something. “Find trouble, SARB.”

The orange ball moves, stops at the screen door, and falls over on its back like a turtle. This happens two times.

“Why does it do that, Walt?”

“It's not clear.” He's typing more.

“Can Jerwal meet it?”

“Not yet.”

“It might need a friend, Walt.”

“There are dozens just like it at the office.”

Uncle Jack didn't like robots because he said they can't take a joke. Walt and I tried to program Jerwal to make a ha-ha noise, but it sounded more like he was wheezing.

Walt opens the screen door. “Find trouble, SARB.”

The little robot rolls onto the porch. We follow it. There's a noise in the bushes. Mrs. Prim is staring at us.

I see no point in lying. “Mrs. Prim, this is my father, Walt. And this is his robot, SARB.”

Her face twists up.

Walt tips his baseball cap to her. “It's a lovely evening, ma'am. Nice to meet you.”

He picks SARB up. Moths dance by the porch light. The Reds just made a very stupid error, letting a Cub get to second, but they're still ahead by two runs.

Walt does the dishes. I arrange my baseball and coaching books on the bookshelf in my room. It sags a little under the weight. Jerwal is in the corner getting a power zap. That's what I need—a power cord to plug into.

Today in study hall, I researched Coach Perkins, the Hornets coach. He has a lot of big coach sayings:

“I don't believe in losing. I believe in winning. One hundred percent.”

“I eat winning for breakfast. I drink it, I breathe it. Every minute. Every day. I program myself to go for it.”

“This is what I tell my players: you play for me, you leave your doubts at the door.”

The door opens and SARB comes rolling in.

“Walt!”

“Act natural, Jer. He needs practice getting around things.”

SARB goes up to my suitcase and stops.

“It's got my stuff,” I tell it.

SARB seems stuck. “Do you want me to turn you around?” I reach down and pick the little robot up.

“I'm getting an emergency signal, Jer! He has to do it himself.”

I put SARB down. “Sorry!”

I'd make eye contact if SARB had reasonable eyes. “You're a winner, SARB. Every minute. Every day. Walt will program you to leave your doubts at the door.”

SARB backs up, runs smack into the door, and falls over.

◆ ◆ ◆

The sign Walt put up on the door reads:

NO ROBOTS IN THE BATHROOM
by order of The Management

I look at Jerwal and SARB. “I'm sorry, you guys. Walt has this boundary thing.”

I open the bathroom door and walk in. It's pink, unfortunately.

There's a small mirror above the sink. I look at myself. People say I look like a kid actor, with my straight blond hair that falls over my left eye. I brush the hair back. My eyes look tough today. My skin isn't puffy like it used to be when I was sick. It definitely isn't blue—it got a little blue when my heart was at its worst.

Lopper, you're looking good, kid. You're looking strong. Go warm up. I'm putting you in the game.

I take out my phone, type:

NOTE TO SELF: FIND OUT—Does this school have a baseball team? “Kind of,” “somewhat,” is not an answer.

“DOES THIS SCHOOL
have a baseball team?”

I ask three kids on the bus and get three answers.

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

“Does this school have a football team?”

Well, yeah.

“A basketball team?”

Of course.

“Track, soccer . . . ?”

Sure.

“So what's with baseball?”

Kids shrug, except for a guy named Logo Larson. The school bus drives past the Hornets' Nest. Logo points out the window. “If you don't win here, nothing else matters.”

“You mean the middle school team didn't win?” I ask.

“We won.” He rubs his elbow and stares out the window.

I say, “I don't understand.”

He shrugs and keeps looking out the window.

◆ ◆ ◆

The bus pulls around the middle school baseball diamond. The field doesn't look like it's been used much. The grass is overgrown; the pitcher's mound is a mess. I see Franny and a few girls running laps. Franny is in the lead, running fast and easy. The bus pulls up to the middle school entrance. Mr. Hazard is in front saying good morning.

He gives me a wave. “How's it going, Jeremiah?”

I smile and walk over. “Good, sir. I have another question.”

“Shoot.”

“What's a ‘somewhat' baseball team?”

His smile cracks a little. “You know, that's a good question, but unfortunately, it would take too long to bring you up to speed. You're not thinking of playing, right?”

“Right.”

“Next year, hopefully.”

“I won't be here next year.”

“Of course.” He pats me on the back.

◆ ◆ ◆

“Does this school have a baseball team?” I ask Ms. Mullner, the science teacher.

“Well, I don't think they do, Jeremiah. This is my first year teaching. They used to have one and something happened.”

Logo, the kid from the bus, says, “The coach got fired,” and takes his seat.

I sit next to him. “Why did they fire him?”

“He pushed too hard.”

I whisper. “What do you mean?”

“Nobody wanted to play for him anymore.”

Ms. Mullner is standing by her desk. “Today,” she says, “we're going to be talking about huge small things: molecules. How can we explain something so infinitesimal?”

No kids raise their hands.

“Anybody hungry?”

A few hands go up.

Ms. Mullner holds a sandwich. “Salami, cheese,
turkey, ham, on a roll. What happens when I cut it?” She cuts it once, then again and again until the parts are so small, they fall apart.

I raise my hand. “You can't call it a sandwich anymore.”

“That's right.” She cuts it some more and holds up a crumb of bread. “A molecule is the smallest particle of a substance that still retains the properties of the substance. And the things molecules are made up of are called atoms.”

A tall, skinny boy says, “You ruined the sandwich.”

“All in the name of science,” she explains.

This is so much better than the three-paragraph essay, but not nearly as important as baseball.

◆ ◆ ◆

I am sitting on the bleachers by the middle school baseball diamond watching four guys play catch. They're actually pretty good. Two of them were in my science class.

The tall, skinny guy has a good arm, throwing fast to the shortest guy, who jumps up to catch it and doesn't miss. He turns around fast and throws it to an African American kid, who scoops it up and shouts, “Wake up, Lopez!” and throws it long to the fourth
guy, who says, “I'm awake, Terrell!” and blasts it back.

The good news: these guys have accuracy and hustle—two big pluses in serious baseball.

The not-so-good news: there are only four of them. You need nine players for a team, plus a few extra.

A toss high and away. The first guy runs, catches the ball, and tosses it fast to the second guy.

I'm waiting for the rest of the somewhat/kind of team. Franny shows up holding the hand of a younger boy with curly dark hair who looks at the sky and smiles, then looks at the guys playing catch and smiles. This kid is just happy to be here.

“Hey, Benny Man,” the tall guy says. “Whaddya know?”

Benny holds up his glove.

“Excellent, man.” The tall guy throws a sizzler to the short kid, who leaps to catch it.

“Great catch!” Benny shouts, and he throws his glove in the air, tries to catch it, but doesn't come close. Benny is on his knees now looking at something on the ground.

Franny says, “You want your snack, Benny?”

“I want my snack, Benny.” He giggles and walks over.

She takes out a lunch box and opens it. “Your mom
was out of oranges today, so she gave you apples. Okay?”

Benny's face changes. He shakes his head no.

“They're good apples. My favorite.”

Benny throws down his glove. “Only oranges. Only oranges.”

“I understand, Benny. We'll get them later.”

He shakes his head again really hard. He looks like he might start crying.

I stand up and say, “I've got an orange.” I walk over, take the orange out of my book bag, and give it to the kid.

Franny smiles. “Benny, this is Jeremiah, our new neighbor.”

I stick out my hand to shake Benny's; he puts both his hands behind him.

“Benny, that's not polite. Jeremiah is our new friend. He lives on our street and he gave you his orange. He gave you a present.”

Benny is hunched over now, trying to get the skin off the orange.

“I'll show you a secret of how to do that.” I hold out my hand. “I need the orange just for a second. I'll give it back.”

Benny looks at my hand, at the orange, at Franny,
who nods. He drops the orange in my hand.

“Watch this,” I tell him. I see two other guys come to play ball. One guy is doing a practice swing with a bat; the other is crouching down like a catcher.

I rub the orange round and round in my hands to loosen the skin. Walt taught me this. Then I peel it and it comes right off.

Benny claps.

I break the orange into sections and hand them to him. He holds them like I just gave him money.

“Wow,” he says.

Franny pushes a paper plate toward him. “Put them here, Benny.”

Benny makes a flower pattern with them on the plate.

“That's pretty,” Franny says.

“Pretty,” Benny says. “I'm forty-two.”

I laugh. “You don't look that old, Benny.”

He doesn't connect with that.

“Benny is eight.” Franny hands him an orange section.

So, what's your story, Benny?

I hear, “You gonna pitch, Sky, or are you gonna stand there?”

I turn to look at the field. The tall, skinny guy, Sky,
says, “I'm gonna pitch. Don't blink, you'll miss it.”

He does a windmill warm-up. The batter bounces a little, waiting for the throw. Logo, the kid I met on the bus, is catcher. He makes a signal. Sky nods a little and lets one loose, missing the plate by, I'd say, a mile.

“Settle down,” Logo tells him.

The batter waits. Sky brings his right arm up and snaps the ball in the dirt.

Benny arranges his sandwich around the orange pieces and puts his carrots in a line on his napkin. He opens his little box of raisins and puts five raisins inside the orange.

“Come on, Sky!” the catcher shouts.

Sky lifts his right arm, pushes off on his foot, and gets the ball closer to the plate, but not close enough.

I look at Franny, who is handing Benny a box of juice with a straw. “This is the baseball team?”

“This is the baseball team,” she says.

“Great catch!” Benny shouts.

“Way to go, Benny Man!” Sky shouts back.

“They need nine guys to play,” I mention.

She bends Benny's straw. “They need nine people, Jeremiah. They don't all have to be guys.”

True. I walk on the field. We need to get this moving. “You're good,” I tell them.

They like that.

“I think, Sky, you've got power; you need to keep your eyes focused on the catcher's glove and change your release point. Release the ball a little earlier. You're hanging on to it too long.”

Sky doesn't like that. “Who are you?”

“Jeremiah Lopper. Try it, Sky.”

He stands there, looks around.

“Come on.” Logo crouches down, holds his glove. “Right in here, guy.”

“Let the ball go earlier,” I remind him.

Sky does a warm-up, lets the ball go, and
wham
.

I nod. “That's a strike.”

The guys look impressed.

“You play?” the black kid asks me.

“I used to. I coach now.”

They laugh.

They can laugh.

“We're looking for a coach who's a little taller.” Logo breaks up at that.

“Shut up, Logo,” Terrell warns. “What do you mean, you coach?”

“I mean, if people are interested, I can really help you play better.”

Even though I just improved their game, I can see they need time to process this.

I look toward the little hill and the big, shiny baseball bat statue. I grab my book bag. “Gotta go.”