The Birth of Super Crip (5 page)

“Did he bother you again today?” she asked.

It was only mildly surprising that she was talking to
him. She was like a different person when Chuck wasn’t around. Red
always thought it was a little strange that she would begin a
conversation as if they talked all the time, but he didn’t mind
since she seemed more comfortable talking to him than most of the
other girls in school.

He shook his head. “Didn’t see him,” Red said. “I
usually only see him after lunch, and I left early to use the
bathroom.”

“Well, I won’t be seeing him at all anymore,” she
whispered. “We had a huge fight after I asked him why he’s always
bothering you. He just flipped out, telling me I’m in love with the
cripple, all this stuff.”

Red felt the wave stir. It was like a knee-jerk
reaction to the word cripple. I’m not a goddamn cripple, he
thought, the words thundering in his head. But he knew Tara was
only repeating her idiot boyfriend so he didn’t say anything.

“I mean, he’s really not that bad,” she went on. “He
just acts like a jerk sometimes. But then he said something about
he always wanted to go with Alley anyway, and I was done.”

To be nice Red gave a half-hearted knowing nod. Even
if he hadn’t been worried about talking in class, there wasn’t much
to say. There didn’t seem to be much point in asking why
sometimes
seemed to be every time Red saw the guy. Besides,
if the best she could say about him is that he’s ‘not that bad,’
why was she dating the jerk? And he could barely bring himself to
think about the prospect of Chuck dating Alley. It made him want to
throw up. He dismissed it from his mind, remembering Alley had
already blown him off.

Mr. Francis quickly got into his lecture on genetics
after the bell rang, and Red struggled to keep up taking notes. He
looked over at Adam and was happy to see that he seemed to be
getting everything down. Even if I need a magnifying glass to read
his notes, Red thought, they save me plenty of times.

“So, can anyone give an example of genetics?” Francis
asked.

Red was even more relieved knowing he would have time
to write down a couple of notes as the teacher tried to pull an
answer out of someone.

“Well, we have one right in the back of the room,”
Francis said, gesturing toward him.

Red felt like every muscle in his body tensed up. No,
he thought. He’s not doing this. He slowly glanced around to see
Tara and others sneaking peeks at him. His heart began to race.
Cold sweat seemed to splash over him. Making eye contact with
Francis, he felt his head nod as if he were agreeing with him.

Francis continued the lecture, though Red could
barely hear him, let alone focus on what he was saying. His entire
body felt as though it was in full spasm. It was coming. Pushing
through his mind, he felt it coming. He suddenly knew it was the
same thing he’d felt the day before when Chuck had put his hand on
his chest. A wave of energy was pushing. No, he thought. He saw
dots in front of his eyes. No. Not here. Not now. He felt it
pushing through him, beyond his control.

He closed his eyes and finally managed to lower his
head. Francis was still talking. Maybe he hasn’t noticed, Red
thought. He took a deep breath. The pushing eased.

The scumbag, Red thought. Did he just say that? Did I
nod for God’s sake?

The wave was still there. He could feel it bob like
the ocean beyond where the waves crest, where he’d only gone a
couple times when he was younger and his father could carry him. It
softly slapped against the sides of his head. Waiting. Waiting to
be released. To be pushed from him.

Glancing up, he stole looks at other kids. Careful
not to keep his eyes on anyone too long for fear of pushing them.
They all peeked over at him, Francis the only one seemingly
oblivious to the absurdity of his own words.

Finally, Red’s heart rate began to slow. He wiped a
drop of sweat from his cheek. Why would he do that? Gathering
himself, anger quickly settled in. Is he really that stupid?

Another deep breath came to him. He sat back in his
desk chair and glared at Francis. The energy was still there, like
a current softly slapping at the shore in his head. He felt the
wave for the first time without fear or panic.

I even thought he was kind of cool, Red thought. I
knew Donohue was a loser. The rest of the teachers are okay. But
Francis seemed alright. Almost likeable. I can’t believe he just
did that. I think his wife is even a physical therapist, he
thought, vaguely remembering a mention from someone earlier in the
year.

The wave splashed around harder, but he didn’t mind.
He even liked it. You’re not even right, asshole, Red thought,
staring at Francis. He wanted to scream it at him. His cerebral
palsy, like most people who had it, was caused by a problem when he
was being born. For him it was a lack of oxygen to the brain.
That’s not genetic, you dope.

Francis turned to write on the blackboard.

I could put him through a wall right now, I bet, Red
thought. He had a look of disgust for the man on his face that was
clear for anyone who cared to see it. Saying the words as he wrote
them, Francis began to scribble “What is genetics?” on the board.
Red focused on the chalk in the teacher’s hand. He was crossing t’s
and dotting i’s with a smack on the blackboard each time. Red
wanted to shout at Francis as he dotted the second i, “You’re
clueless! You don’t even know!” He felt the wave burst through him,
pushing the energy across the room.

The chalk exploded as if on impact when it connected
one last time with the blackboard. Francis’s head bobbed backwards.
The class filled with a murmur of laughter. Momentarily flustered,
the teacher looked down on the shelf of the blackboard for the
broken piece of chalk, but there wasn’t one. He couldn’t find
anything on the floor either, and his hand held nothing but chalk
dust.

The students laughed a little louder as Francis
looked around for the chalk. He ignored them, grabbing another
piece of chalk from further down the shelf and nervously adjusting
his glasses.

Red looked down, pretending to take notes. His breath
was short and choppy. He couldn’t believe it. He had felt the surge
of the wave pushing out of him, saw the momentary darkness, the
spots in front of his eyes. But he didn’t care. It was different
this time. Not finding the words to explain how he had done it, he
knew it was him. He had made the chalk explode. He had pushed Chuck
down.

Letting the feeling of light-headedness pass as the
wave receded, Red smiled. He let the wave splash around in his
head.

It was his now.

Chapter 8

Red looked at the house again and rolled his eyes. He
said he’d be right out, Red thought as he patted the Nerf football.
After getting home from school, he didn’t bother to put his book
bag in his room and asked his brother to have a catch the second he
saw him. Red even went to get the Nerf from the basement, which
Scott would usually do because it was easier for him to go up and
down the steps, and convinced his mom that he hardly had any
homework when she suggested he get some of it done before rushing
outside.

He turned back to the open field and pretended to
throw the ball toward the woods, which they once estimated was
about seventy-five yards from the last line of trees in the front
part of Mr. Taylor’s yard. He resisted the urge to see if he could
reach the woods by pushing his throw with the wave. Red was almost
convinced he could do it. In fact, he thought it would be easy. But
he knew if Scott came out before he walked at least most of the
distance to pick up the ball, his brother would wonder how he had
thrown it so far. Instead, he tucked the ball under his arm and
began to run for the imaginary end zone. Of course, he knew he was
moving at about the rate of a semi-fast walk for his brother, but
he staved off ghost tacklers with his perfectly timed
stiff-arms.

Hearing the sound of rustling leaves from behind, he
knew his brother was racing toward him. Scott loved to tease him by
chasing him down from long distances. Red picked up his pace,
running as fast as he could but knowing the desire to move quicker
only made his muscles tighten up. He resisted the urge to look back
at his brother, focusing instead on the field ahead of him.

Just once, Red thought as his heart began to race. He
looked straight ahead, feeling that maybe he had lengthened his
stride a hair. Scott’s laughter caught his ear, but he refused to
give in. Just once I wanna beat him.

Feeling Scott behind him, Red looked back and stuck
his arm out to hold him off for just another yard or two. Instead,
the stiff-arm sent his brother to the ground. Red barely felt the
wave receding. He didn’t care. He just kept running.

Twenty yards from the end zone, Scott came storming
back more determined than ever to tackle his brother. This time he
grabbed his arm when Red went to shove him off, but he was still
pushed backwards. Red almost lost his balance from his brother’s
grab but managed to stay on his feet. Trying to regain his
momentum, Scott felt something knock his feet out from under him as
he saw Red look back.

“Yeah!” Red exulted as he reached the area all the
neighborhood kids knew as the end zone. He spiked the ball and
threw his arms up in victory. “Yeah-ha-hah! Touchdown, baby!!”

Scott sat on the ground for a moment watching his
brother dance around. He resisted his teenaged instincts to cry
foul, knowing his brother didn’t get many opportunities to claim
victory. But he knew there was something more than ego telling him
that the touchdown run wasn’t just different because Red had been
able to fend him off. His brother’s attempt to do the Ickey Shuffle
actually made him laugh out loud. Getting off the ground, he slowly
walked over to pick up the ball, which had rolled about ten yards
away after Red had spiked it.

He waited for Red to finally end the celebration, and
tossed him the ball. “I thought you might throw yourself a parade,”
Scott said.

Red caught the ball with ease. “I was thinking about
it,” he said.

“You waited so long to use that dance the guy who
invented it doesn’t even play this year. I think he got hurt or
something.”

“Whatever, dude. Touchdown!”

They both laughed. Red threw the ball back to him,
focusing on the ball more than he ever did when they would have a
catch.

Scott noticed that the ball reached him with a little
more force than usual. He put a little more into his next throw and
watched Red catch it with no problem.

“Nice,” Scott commented.

Red nodded. He knew it was there. The wave was
bobbing again. No burst. No recession. He didn’t see stars or feel
light-headed. It was just there. His to control. A sense of
euphoria swept through him.

His next toss was a little stronger. Just focusing on
the ball pushed it into his brother’s hands. The same method eased
it back into his own hands on the return throw.

He threw the ball back even harder. Scott matched his
effort.

He can tell, Red thought. He knows I can’t throw it
this hard on my own.

Red’s catching ability baffled both of them. He
caught it again, watching the ball into his hands as their father
had always taught them but having it work like never before. He
actually felt the need to resist throwing the ball as hard as he
could. As he watched the ball into his hands again, he felt as
though he was grabbing it before his hands ever felt the
hard-spongy material of the ball. On the next toss from Scott, he
realized what he was doing. He could slow the ball, almost
imperceptibly, as it reached his hands. He was pushing against it
just enough to slow the ball’s flight, making it easy to catch.

“I’m getting nervous,” Scott joked. “You’re not even
using your body to catch it. All hands.”

Red just laughed.

Scott started running toward the house after his
throw. “I’m gonna grab the Duke,” he said.

“I always have trouble with that one,” Red said. He
didn’t bother adding that he could never grip the leather ball
enough to throw it, since his brother was practically
sprinting.

After watching Scott go into their back door, Red
looked around at the open field. He squeezed the Nerf ball with
both of his hands. As the muscles in his hands and forearms worked
on the ball, he had a confidence, a strength, a feeling of power
he’d never known. Looking for a target, he decided that the trees
marking the limit of their football field were too close. Windows
on the houses in front of him were too breakable. Glancing to his
right, he saw the back of the firehouse that was nestled at the end
of the street.

He could just barely make out the speed ball strike
zone that was first painted on the station’s back wall long before
they had ever moved into the neighborhood. The spray paint got at
least one touch-up every summer. Most of the neighborhood kids had
spent hours behind the firehouse on long summer days playing the
variation of stick ball. Red was generally relegated to unofficial
umpire on questionable strike calls because he couldn’t throw hard
enough or swing quickly enough for the fast-pitch game.