Soar (4 page)

HARGIE CANTWELL HAS
a sting in his slider. It whizzes and dunks past the batter for the Temple High School Tigers, who stands there, clueless.

“Strike three!” the umpire calls.

The crowd in the Hornets' stadium goes crazy and makes a loud buzzing sound. People wearing Hornets hats shake their heads to make the stingers bounce.

Hargie's struck out the last two batters with only seven pitches. That's impressive. It's the sixth inning.

“He's a big kid,” Walt says, “but he's going to blow out his arm at those speeds.”

Walt pitched in college, but his arm didn't hold up.

Wham!
Another strike.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

We stand up, we sit down.

Let's go, Hornets!

clap clap

clap clap clap

Turns out Hargie Cantwell can hit, too. He sits on a three-one fastball and whacks it into the stands for a two-run homer.

“That kid is something,” Walt says.

I grin at Walt. It is so amazing to be here.

Behind us, two men talk about the Hornets catcher being suspended because he insulted the Spanish teacher. I don't know if the insult was in Spanish or English, but the principal sent him home for a week, and that meant he couldn't play on opening day.

One man says, “You know what that principal told Coach Perkins?”

“What?”

“That woman said baseball wasn't as important as respectful behavior. Can you imagine that?”

“They'll remember it when her contract's up for renewal.”

Walt and I look at each other.

I see Franny in the crowd, cheering, twirling a
GO HORNETS
towel.

I wish I could play. I used to play when I was little. Third base. Shortstop.

I'm still hoping medical science is going to figure me out.

Aunt Charity wanted me to write a three-paragraph essay about that. I didn't need three paragraphs to talk about it. I only had one thing to say:

I deal with it.

The End

In the margin, she wrote:
Jeremiah, you do indeed deal with it. I give you an A+ for courage and an Incomplete on content, which, believe me, is generous.

I rewrote it in three paragraphs, but I basically said the same thing.

◆ ◆ ◆

The Hornets have a huge lead: 11–2. In the final inning Hargie throws his glove down and starts screaming when a kid from the Tigers drives in a run. Hargie is stomping and fuming on the mound like he's lost the game. The catcher runs up and tries to calm him down; the coach runs up, puts his arm around Hargie,
and talks to him for a while. He throws some out-of-control pitches, but then he settles down and finishes the inning. The Hornets win 11–3.

After the game, I try to find Franny, but she's disappeared into the crowd. Walt and I stand in line and finally get into Junk Ball Pizza—this is only okay pizza, but it seems to be the place to go after the game. A few of the Hornets come in and people applaud them like superstars. There's a special booth with a sign:
ALWAYS RESERVED
FOR COACH PERKINS
. No one is sitting there.

We head home. We pull up our driveway and walk inside the house to the kitchen. Walt leans against the refrigerator. He does this when his back hurts. He straightens himself against the door.

A loud motorcycle goes down the street; we hear what sounds like our neighbor Mrs. Prim shout, “Hargie Cantwell, if you don't slow down on that blasted thing, you'll kill yourself or somebody else!”

“I guess it's hard to come down from a big game like that, Walt.”

Walt rubs his lower back. “That guy is wound too tight.”

I'D JUST SAY
to every kid who doesn't want to go to school, if you'd been sick for a few years and couldn't go much, like me, you might think about the whole experience differently.

I'm standing by the
NO BULLYING/NO KIDDING
poster in the office of Hillcrest Middle School. The lady at the desk looks at my too-long doctor's report, then at me. I try to look healthy.

I wish people didn't have to know about my heart. Mention the word
transplant
and people get nervous. It's not like I had a brain transplant!

“How do we know if something goes wrong?” is her question.

I'd like to say, “My chest rings.”

Walt puts his hand on my shoulder. “It shouldn't be
a problem, but you have my emergency line. That will get me anywhere.” Walt's emergency line blares like a siren. “And the doctor has requested that he carry his phone in school for emergencies. He won't abuse the privilege.”

She stares at me. I hold up my right hand like I'm being sworn in. “I won't. I swear. Unless I'm dying, no one will ever see the phone.” Still staring. “But I have no immediate plans for death.” Walt shakes his head.

I'm looking at a door with a yellow-and-black sign. There's a big exclamation mark in a triangle—underneath it is one word:
HAZARD
. A man walks out of that office. The woman says, “Mr. Hazard, this is Jeremiah, our new student.”

We shake hands.

“Mr. Hazard,” she continues, “is our vice principal.”

The lady hands him my medical report. He leafs through the pages, then looks at me.

“It's not as bad as it seems, sir.”

Mr. Hazard smiles. A woman walks up who looks official. “Dr. Selligman,” Mr. Hazard says, “meet Jeremiah, our new student.”

“Hello, Jeremiah.”

“Dr. Selligman is the principal,” Mr. Hazard adds.

I stand straighter. First impressions are important. “This seems like a good school,” I say.

Dr. Selligman smiles. “I'm glad to hear that. I hope you'll jump right in.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'd like to do that.”

“Any questions so far?”

“Is there a middle school baseball team?”

The principal looks at Mr. Hazard like she's not sure. Mr. Hazard coughs. “Ah, somewhat. We don't exactly have a full team.” He pauses. “That program . . . is being reevaluated.”

“Well, I have a meeting. Glad you're here, Jeremiah.” Dr. Selligman heads to her office.

Mr. Hazard gives my medical report back to the lady at the desk. “And my door is always open. Welcome to our school.”

He marches out of the office. Actually, I have another question.

What's a “somewhat” baseball team?

The lady says she'll take me to my first period En-glish class. Walt is working hard to not look worried.

I whisper to him, “I'll try to blend in.”

He laughs and pats me on the back.

I sit in the middle row of sixth grade English class and hear the dreaded words.

“The three-paragraph essay,” Mrs. Ogletree says, “has a simple structure.”

Aunt Charity drummed this into me and it will never leave. When I'm old and bald and can't remember my name, I will remember the three-part structure.

Introduction

Body

Conclusion

Mrs. Ogletree writes on the board:

Introduction

Body

Conclusion

I can tell she's lost some of the kids already.

“Let's talk about what's in each of those parts,” she says. “In an introduction, you present the concept or the thesis you want to get across.”

Slumped shoulders in the class—at least the kids in front of me are slumping.

“What's a thesis?”

I know this.

No one is raising their hands.

Mrs. Ogletree stares at the class until a boy can't stand the silence anymore. He raises his hand. She points at him. “Donald.”

“Uh, a thesis . . . is kind of like an idea.” He has a flat voice.

“That's right . . .” She wants more, though, and this teacher can wait. Kids are looking down. I don't want to raise my hand on the first day, but I don't have any choice. She nods at me.

“A thesis is like a theory,” I say. “It's an idea you have, and you need to explain it and build on it.”

Everyone looks at me.

“Very good, Gerard.”

“It's Jeremiah, ma'am.”

I can't believe that the three-paragraph essay has followed me to Ohio!

Or the recorder.

In Music Appreciation, twenty kids with recorders
are trying to play “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” which makes me want to run out of the room, it's so grim. I've got this song down like some kids know “Chopsticks” on the piano.

“You're quite good at the recorder, Jerry,” Mrs. Nimroy says.

I mention it's Jeremiah, not Jerry. I don't mention that only Walt is allowed to call me Jer.

It's good to know the stuff you learn has applications in other places.

It's less good when it's not the stuff you care about.

◆ ◆ ◆

I've been looking for Franny all day. I see her in the cafeteria sitting at a table with other girls. She has a tray of red velvet cupcakes with white frosting.

I walk up. “I'm Jeremiah, the interesting new kid. Remember? You brought these cupcakes for my first day?”

She laughs. “It's my birthday. Today I'm twelve.”

I meet her friend Lilah, who is in charge of the cupcakes. If I stare at them long enough, I bet I'll get one.

“Would you like a cupcake . . . Jeremiah?”

I sit down. “I would.” I turn to Franny. “You need to do something fantastic. No, beyond amazing, for your birthday. You can never take a birthday for granted.” I'm big on birthdays, since mine is a theory.

“My grandpa is taking me to a Cincinnati Reds game tonight.”

That's a celebration, and this is an excellent cupcake. “Where are you sitting?”

“The bleachers. We always sit there.”

“That's good, Franny. You learn a lot about life in the bleachers.”

One of the girls at the table asks me, “Where are you from?”

“Well, it's a secret planet that hasn't been discovered yet.”

All the girls laugh. I finish the top on my cupcake, then attack the bottom.

“It's called St. Louis,” Franny mentions.

“That's just a cover,” I assure her.

◆ ◆ ◆

Franny and I take the bus home from school together. It pulls onto our street. The dog I whistled at yesterday is watching.

“You've got a name, I bet,” I shout to the dog.

“It's Adler,” Franny tells me.

“Adler, come.”

Adler sits there studying me. I whistle like yesterday. I have to whistle three times, but the third time works. Adler pads over.

“That is totally amazing, Jeremiah!”

“So what's your story, Adler?” I get down on one knee and rub this dog's neck, then move under his chin. “My dog, Digger, loved this.” The dog wags its tail. It looks part spaniel, part something else. “Are you a combo plate?”

Franny laughs. The dog sits there.

I don't know what I am, either. It's okay. You can still have a good life.

An older man walks out of Franny's house, followed by a lady who looks like Franny. The man says, “Son, how did you get that dog over there?”

“I whistled.”

The man and the lady walk over. He's got a wide forehead, a wide nose, and smiling eyes. “That must've been some whistle. That dog hasn't budged since his owner died. He keeps waiting for old Bob Simon to come home from work; he only goes into
the house at night. We all take turns feeding him.”

He gives the dog a pat. Adler looks back across the street at his yard.

“Yeah, you made the journey finally, didn't you, boy?” The man sticks out his hand. I shake it firmly. “Ellis Grand. Franny's grandfather.”

“Also known as El Grande,” Franny says.

“That's a great name, sir.”

“I coached baseball a while back and the players called me that.”

“Wow. That's, like, the ultimate. I'm Jeremiah Lopper.”

“Welcome to Hillcrest, son. Are you a baseball man?”

“I'm a maniac, sir.”

The lady says, “You two will get along just fine. I'm Val Engers, Franny's mom.”

I shake her hand, too. “Have fun at the game tonight.”

Franny's grandpa smiles. “Should be a good one.”

“I think the Reds will win, sir. The Cubs weren't hitting strong against left-handed pitchers in spring training, and Cincinnati's starter has wicked breaking stuff. Plus with their midwinter trades and the two kids up from Triple-A, the manager's finally got the lineup right.”

Franny's mom laughs. “Are we ready for you, Jeremiah?”

Possibly not.

“You play ball, son?”

I hate this question. “Not right now.”

He points at me. “We'll talk again.”

They climb into their car and head off.

There goes . . .

EL GRANDE

Happy birthday, Franny.

Adler cocks his head and looks at me. I rub him behind the ears. “Adler, I really like it here.”