The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco (8 page)

Phillip could see a picture in his mind of thin young girls sailing through the air in tiny skirts and tights. It reminded him of the circus.

“They made her a base,” Sam said. “That’s the person on the bottom who holds the other cheerleaders up.”

“Did she make friends?” asked Phillip.

“Some,” said Sam. “But there was this kid—Stinky. He was captain of the school dodgeball team, the Hardingtown Hedgehogs. He liked to embarrass her in front of the other kids.”

“What does this have to do with the petition idea?” asked Phillip.

“Hear me out,” said Sam. “On the day of the Regional High School Championship, Stinky was having a bad game. The Hedgehogs had lost one their best players. The cheerleaders began doing a special routine to cheer them up.

“They built a pyramid so high the girl on top looked like she could touch the ceiling. The base was holding it practically by herself. Nobody knew what came over Stinky. One minute, he was standing there holding a dodgeball. The next minute, he was lobbing it at the base of the pyramid.”

“What happened?” Phillip asked.

“It collapsed. The cheerleaders came crashing down. Fortunately for them, the Hedgehogs were directly below to help break their fall.”

“Not so fortunate for the Hedgehogs,” Phillip said.

“That’s right,” said Sam. “Put the whole team out of commission. They had to forfeit the game. Ended in second
place. It was the worst fiasco in Hardingtown dodgeball history.”

“That’s awful,” said Phillip.

Sam nodded his head, slowly. “It wasn’t her fault,” Sam said, “but they blamed the base cheerleader anyway. A hundred people must have seen Stinky throw that ball, but none of them had the nerve to speak against him. That’s how it is with bullies.”

Phillip could feel the punch as the ball slammed into the base cheerleader. He could hear the crowd shouting at her, and taste her salty tears as they slipped down her flushed cheeks onto her trembling lips.

“You aren’t the first kid in Hardingtown to get picked on by a dodgeball bully,” said Sam. “But if you start a petition, you’ll be the first kid around here to do something about it.”

Phillip nodded. Sam was right. He had to try to help the other dodgeball targets. If enough kids signed the petition, they wouldn’t have to worry about dodgeball anymore.

“I’ll get a hundred signatures, same as the ice-cream petition,” said Phillip.

“Figure out who the biggest dodgeball targets are and talk to them first,” Sam advised. “The more signatures you get, the more people will sign. People like to follow the leader.” Sam stood and offered Phillip his hand. Phillip shook it. It felt good to have a plan.

The next day, Phillip quickly realized his first signature would be the hardest. After considering a half dozen kids, he decided to ask Shawn, since they sort of had a relationship.

Phillip reasoned with Shawn as Sam had told him to. “Since dodgeball is won by eliminating as many people as possible, the majority are losers. If all the losers get together,
we can make them offer us an alternative sport.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Shawn.

“Please,” Phillip begged. “I need your help.”

“Why should I get involved?” Shawn asked.

“Because if you sign the petition,” Phillip said, trying to find a way to appeal to the big boy, “I’ll give you my lunch.”

It worked. He had his first signature. Phillip looked around. Who would sign next? He saw Carmen. He went over to her lunch table and stood next to her, but she acted like she didn’t see him. When she finally stood up to put her tray away, he made his move.

“What do you want?” she said.

“Will you sign my petition?” he asked, presenting it.

“You’re standing in my way,” she said.

“It’s to make dodgeball optional.”

“Who died and put you in charge?”

“I’m not in charge. I’m only trying to help.”

“Why would I want to sign your petition?”

“I signed yours,” he said.

“Mine was important.”

“This is important,” he said. “There are other sports we could play where kids wouldn’t get hurt.”

She looked at him for a moment with a serious expression, as if she were thinking it over.

“Let me see the petition,” she said.

Phillip held his breath. If she signed, her friends would, too. Carmen took the petition and ran her finger down the page.

“Aha!” she said.

“What?”

“I can’t sign this.”

“Why not?”

“It hasn’t been approved by the student council yet.”

“The what?”

“The students we elected to represent us.”

“Oh, the student council.”

“You can’t circulate a petition until the student council clears it. You need a seal in this space down here.”

Phillip saw the empty space at the bottom of the form.

“How do I get the student council to approve it?”

“Look,” she said, “see that girl in the green sweater?” She pointed to a water fountain where a group of kids were crowded. Phillip could see a piece of the green sweater near the front of the line.

“She’s president of the student council,” Carmen said. “Go ask her.”

Phillip made his way to the girl. She was drinking.

“Excuse me,” he said.

The girl stopped and looked up at him. It was B.B. Tyson.

M
ost people think clowns are disorganized. But in each circus there is one clown who is the boss clown. The boss clown is in charge of the other clowns. You can’t even pull a rubber chicken out of your pants unless the boss clown approves.

If the Hardingtown Middle School was a circus, B.B. Tyson would be boss clown.

“What do you want?” B.B. demanded when Phillip tapped her shoulder.

Oh no, thought Phillip, wincing inside.

“Are you the president of student council?” he asked.

“Of course I am,” she said.

Phillip felt like his stilt had hit deep mud. It seemed hopeless to ask B.B. He had to force the words out.

“I want the student council to approve my petition,” he said.

She looked at him suspiciously.

“Is this like your stupid ‘hall monitor’ joke, Stanislaw?”

“No,” he said, mustering his courage. “I want you to approve my petition.” He handed her the paper. “It’s to give kids an option to play a sport other than dodgeball in gym.”

B.B. laughed.

“Are all circus boys chickens like you?” she asked. A small group of kids gathered.

“I’m not a chicken. I don’t think it’s fair they make us play dodgeball every gym class, that’s all,” said Phillip.

“The reason you don’t like dodgeball is you’re afraid of the ball,” said B.B. “You’re a big, yellow chicken, Stanislaw.” B.B. made squawking sounds. She bent her elbows and put her hands under her arms, flapping them in mock chicken motions. Snickers rose around them and grew into full-pitched laughs. Phillip felt his ears turn into thermometers about to burst.

“No,” he yelled. “That’s not why.”

The laughter screeched to a halt. All eyes were on him. He completely forgot he was yelling at someone who could punch his lights out.

“The reason I think dodgeball should be optional,” insisted Phillip, “is because I think it’s wrong to encourage bigger, stronger kids to hurt smaller, weaker kids.”

“Dodgeball is a sport,” said B.B. “Kids get hurt playing all kinds of sports. Only sissies whine about it.”

“Dodgeball’s not a sport. It’s target practice for bullies.”

“Targets smargets. You’re complaining because you’re a wimp.”

“I am not.”

“Then prove it. You and I, one-on-one dodgeball. After school. In the gymnasium. If you win, I’ll make the student council approve your stupid petition.”

“What happens if I lose?” he asked.

“If you lose…” began B.B., scheming a horrible fate for Phillip. “If you lose, you have to change your name from Stanislaw to Coleslaw for the rest of the year.”

“Why coleslaw?” asked a boy from the crowd.

“Because nobody likes coleslaw,” B.B. said, then turned and tromped off.

Once Phillip calmed down, he was shocked at what he had gotten into. He ran to grab his history book before heading to class. As soon as he got there, Phillip caught a boy whispering and pointing at him. He pretended it was just another school day, but he kept dropping things and couldn’t get any answers right. All he could think about was the one-on-one dodgeball game with B.B.

Finally, he asked to go to the bathroom. He wandered down the deserted hallway, and walked past the door that said
BOYS
. Then he sneaked out the back door of the school and slunk to the courthouse.

As soon as he got to the courthouse, he began to feel he had made a mistake. On the gym floor B.B. would have beaten him, but if he had faced off with her, at least he would have been doing something. That evening, a faint smell like rotting cabbage hung in the air.

The next school day, it took all the nerve Phillip had just to get out of bed. He expected everyone at school to make fun of him. He expected there to be a banner hanging across the face of the Hardingtown Middle School that said:

There wasn’t.

He expected kids to laugh when he walked by.

They didn’t.

A few kids called him Coleslaw, but most simply avoided
him. Phillip poured himself into his work. The next few weeks passed without incident. Whenever he saw B.B., she glared triumphantly and her friends snickered. There was no way the student council would approve his petition now. There was no use even trying.

Then it happened.

“Stanislaw,” Coach called to Phillip as he made his way up the bleachers. “Three weeks is up. You’re on the floor today.”

Panic filled him.

B.B. dribbled a dodgeball and gave him a menacing wink. Coach mixed things up by picking captains and having them select their teammates. B.B. made sure she didn’t pick Phillip for her team. Phillip crept to his side of the gym with a couple of kids anxious to share their dodgeball strategies.

“If you flex your stomach muscles right before the ball hits you, you’ll hardly feel it,” a student tipped him off.

“Personally,” said another, “I’ll take a head shot anytime.” She knocked on her skull. “It’s one of the good things about being hardheaded.”

“Stomach shot, head shot, they both have their advantages under the right conditions,” said a third, “but overall, I prefer the twisted-shoulder defense.”

“What’s that?” asked Phillip.

“When you see the ball coming,” the kid explained, “you twist your torso so that you take the hit in the square of your top arm. It’s the best place to absorb the impact.”

Phillip considered his options. He didn’t want to climb the rope or hide behind other players. He was tired of running away. They are not custard pies, he reminded himself. They are balls. How much could a dodgeball hurt?

Seeing one coming, he held still and waited for impact. It
whizzed past, so close he could taste its stiff, inflatable rubber. The gym floor vibrated faintly as kids ran and dodged and fell against it. Screams, laughs, and grunts filled Phillip’s ears as balls found their marks. But he did not move.

“This is for you, Coleslaw,” he heard B.B. yell. The burning ball sped at him like a meteor racing toward Earth, anxious to form a nasty crater.

Defiantly, he closed his eyes.

WHAP!!!!
The ball pounded him on the side of the head at the temple. His glasses dug across his nose. They flew off and sailed across the room, crashing against a wall. Phillip held his burning face in his hands and struggled to keep from crying.

Coach blew his whistle and stopped the game. Phillip located the pieces of his glasses and made his way to the bleachers, where he sat with the other defeated players.

“You should have tried the twisted-shoulder defense,” one said.

Phillip examined his glasses. In one hand, he held the scratched lenses; in the other, the bent metal frames. Without his glasses on, Phillip was lucky he could even find his way to the courthouse after school. Twice he went down the wrong street and had to turn around.

“Dodgeball?” Aunt Veola asked when she saw his bruised nose. Phillip nodded and handed her the broken glasses.

“Uncle Felix can fix them,” she said. “He worked at an optical shop. One time he forgets to lock the door and, wouldn’t you know, burglars took all the inventory.”

When they got home, Uncle Felix used a pair of pliers to straighten out the twisted metal.

“It’s all a matter of holding the frames while you twist back with the pliers,” Uncle Felix said.