Zero to Hero (7 page)

“Who’s in the mood for flank steak?” Dr. Fielding asked as he came into the kitchen to get the meat out of the refrigerator.

“Me,” Breeze answered. “I’m starving.”

“I thought you were a vegetarian, sweetie.”

“That was yesterday, Dad.”

“Oh, I see. Well, the fire’s all ready. I just came in here to get the steaks.”

“I guess I should go, then,” Rod said. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinnertime.”

“Nonsense, young Rod.” Bennett put a hand on his shoulder and gave him the comforting squeeze he had perfected in his years of being a dentist. “You’re welcome to stay. There’s plenty of food. Billy isn’t much of a meat eater.”

“His favorite food is potato chip sandwiches,” Breeze said. “Oh, and he likes to eat olives off the tips of his fingers. He’s what you call majorly weird. And let’s not forget the tonsil.”

“He eats tonsils?” Rod asked.

“Not that I know of,” Breeze said. “But I wouldn’t put it past him. He keeps his own tonsil in a jar under his bed. Yesterday, he actually tried to display it on the countertop in the bathroom we share, but I said, ‘No way, José…. I’m not putting on my makeup staring at something that used to be in your throat.’ ”

“How old is that tonsil?” Rod asked.

“Beats me. Five years old. Maybe seven.”

“I believe Charlotte mentioned Billy had his tonsils removed when he was six,” Dr. Fielding said. “That would make it five years old. It’s almost ready to start kindergarten.” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

“It must look gross,” Rod said.

“The human body isn’t gross, Rod,” Dr. Fielding said. “It’s fascinating. Now, if there were still pus on the tonsil, I could understand your reaction. But the tonsil itself is just a ball
of tissue made up of blood and cells and protoplasm. Not entirely different from the steaks we’re having for dinner.”

“Eeuuwww, Dad,” Breeze said. “I think I just became a vegetarian again.”

“Rod, why don’t you call your mother and ask if you can stay for dinner,” Dr. Fielding said as he headed toward the back door with the plate of steaks. “And, Breeze, get Billy and tell him the food will be on the table in seven minutes…. Three and half minutes per side is my secret for medium rare perfection.”

On his way out, Dr. Fielding grabbed a long two-pronged fork that he used for flipping the meat, and a timer that was set for exactly seven minutes. Breeze reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out her cell phone.

“You can use my phone,” she said to Rod, “while I go grab the little one.”

“There’s no point in calling. My mom’s at work until seven. And my dad’s taking Amber to Indian Princesses, so I’m fine for a while. Besides, I really want to check out your brother’s tonsil.”

“Suit yourself,” Breeze said. “But I’m warning you. You’re going to be grossed out.”

As Rod followed Breeze down the hall, he decided to bring up the subject that was bothering him. “Hey, Breeze,” he began. “Have you ever noticed anything strange going on in Billy’s room?”

“Yeah, only like every minute he’s in there. Don’t forget, this is the kid who draws bolts of lightning on his feet with a Sharpie.”

“I mean anything
really
strange, like, say, pictures spinning or furniture moving?”

Breeze stopped abruptly and turned to stare at Rod. “
Now
who’s acting strange?”

Rod shut up fast.

Breeze knocked on Billy’s door and, as usual, entered before she was even finished knocking. Billy was sitting at his desk with his math book open, copying some problems onto a sheet of notebook paper. His calculator was out although he hardly ever needed to use it. Math was his best subject and he could do most calculations in his head. He was surprised to see Breeze,
and even more surprised to see that Rod was back. Billy knew that if the Hoove were still there, he’d have scared Rod away again, but the Hoove was gone, having left the premises as soon as Billy started his homework. The Hoove said he was allergic to homework. He said it gave him a rash, which Billy didn’t exactly understand. Hoover had no skin, so what exactly did the rash appear on? But the Hoove was not interested in Billy’s logic, and simply floated out through the window, saying he’d be back when he’d be back.

“Dad says dinner is in seven minutes,” Breeze announced.

“We’re having steak,” Rod added.

“We?”

“Yeah, your stepdad invited me for dinner. I think he likes me, but then, who doesn’t? I’m used to being admired. Like that girl Ruby who was here. She’s a fan. I can just feel it.”

“Right, Brownstone,” Billy snarled. “Everyone loves you. According to you, that is.”

“You got that right,” Rod said, pushing his
way farther into Billy’s room. “Hey, dude, if it’s okay with you, I was hoping to get a look at that tonsil you keep in a jar.”

Billy jumped to his feet and stared at Breeze.

“You … you … you told him about my tonsil?” he stammered. “I thought we had a pact.”

“It slipped out, Billy. Honest. I didn’t mean to say it.”

“Fine, then watch this slip out.” Billy turned to Rod. “You know that high school guy who drives the red —”

Breeze pounced on Billy like a tiger. “Don’t you dare tell!”

“I won’t tell,” Billy said, removing her hand from over his mouth. “Because unlike some people I know, I keep my word.”

While Billy and Breeze argued about which secrets they would or would not spill, Rod took the opportunity to casually glance around the room for the tonsil. He thought he spotted it under the bed, just where Breeze said Billy kept it. Trying to look completely natural, Rod inched
his way across the room, stuck his foot under the bed, and slid the jar out into the open. He bent down, picked it up, and held it up to the light to inspect its contents.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. The fluid in which the tonsil lived was murky, the color of old fish-tank water. And the tonsil itself had a long, fleshy string trailing behind it, like a halfrotten tail. Every now and then, when Rod rotated the jar, the tonsil would turn on its side and bounce off the side of the glass.

“Wow, this is worse than I could have ever imagined,” Rod said. “I bet it stinks, too. You don’t ever take the lid off, do you?”

Billy shot across the room and grabbed the jar out of Rod’s hands.

“Give me that!” he shouted. “It’s a little piece of me, and it’s not available for public inspection!”

“Fine, you can have it. It’s disgusting,” Rod said. “Like the rest of you.”

Holding the jar tightly to make sure it was secure, Billy returned to his desk, where Breeze was still standing.

“Eeuuuwww!” she screamed. “Get that thing out of my sight before I totally gag.”

“Do what she says, you freak,” Rod chimed in.

Billy pulled open the top drawer of his desk, put the jar inside, and shoved it all the way to the back.

“There, you satisfied?” he said.

As he closed the drawer, Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding called from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s ready!” she hollered. “Grab your own drink from the fridge on the way out.”

“Finally,” Breeze said. “Come on, guys. My dad makes great steaks.”

“What are you going to have?” Rod said to Billy. “Barbequed tonsil?”

He let out one of his spit-spraying laughs, which Billy ignored as he followed Breeze into the hall. Rod Brownstone started after them, then stopped suddenly, as an idea entered his thick skull. They didn’t enter very often, and when they did, they were usually half-baked, but Rod happened to think this one had a certain brilliance to it.

“I’ll be right there,” he called. “Just got to tie my shoe.”

As soon as Billy and Breeze were out of sight, Rod quickly took off his plaid flannel shirt, opened the desk drawer, and removed the tonsil jar, wrapping it in his shirt so no one could tell it was there. Then he smiled a devilish smile, tucked the shirt under his arm, and left Billy’s room with a bounce in his step.

“All right, let’s go over the procedures one more time,” Hoover said to Billy.

It was the next morning, and the Hoove was giving Billy some last-minute instructions for his second day of school. He wanted to make sure there was no repeat of the previous day’s disaster. Billy stuffed his books and papers into his backpack, listening to the Hoove with only one ear. Maybe even half an ear.

“Billy Boy, are you listening to me? I don’t see you paying attention.”

Billy was concentrating on the zipper of his backpack, which had gotten stuck on the pages of his math homework. “I got it, Hoove. Hoove’s Rule Number Forty-seven: ‘No onions for breakfast, grilled or otherwise’.”

“You see that,” the Hoove said. “All my effort is for naught. I moved on from that five
minutes ago. If you had been paying attention, you’d know that what I am discussing with you now is Rule Number Three, also known as the Nod.”

“Right,” Billy said. “The Nod.”

“Now observe. I will demonstrate.”

The Hoove floated off Billy’s desk and strutted dramatically across the rug, snapping his suspenders when he arrived at the other side of the room.

“This is how you do it, Billy Boy. Notice the confidence, the powerful aura.”

“Excuse me, Hoove. Do you remember who you’re talking to? I don’t have a pinky finger full of confidence, let alone a powerful aura.”

“All the more reason for you to study what I’m doing. This is for your future, ducky. Now for the Nod. You walk up the front steps, and as you reach the top, you nod ever so slightly. But only to those who nod at you first. Try it. Let me see your best nod.”

Billy put down his backpack with a sigh and strutted across the room, trying to imitate the Hoove, but on him it looked less like a swagger
and more like a chicken trying to climb out of a puddle.

“Now nod,” the Hoove commanded.

Billy looked out at an imaginary group of students and, instead of nodding, started to wave his hand enthusiastically.

“Hold it! Hold it right there! Who said anything about waving? There is no waving involved here. How did you get from nodding your head to flapping your hand?”

“In my mind, I was happy to see everyone,” Billy said. “I saw them all smiling.”

A hopeless feeling swept over Hoover. This kid was proving to be really difficult. He had no instinct for cool. In fact, Billy just naturally went in the totally opposite direction.

“Listen to me,” the Hoove instructed. “What the Nod says is ‘I’m happy to see you and you’re lucky because of it.’ This is all communicated with just the smallest move of your head.”

“What’s wrong with waving?”

“The wave moves you from acceptable to dorkdom. Don’t question what I say. Just know
that it’s true. I’ve had ninety-nine years to perfect the Nod.”

Billy slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed for the door.

“I wish I could go with you today,” the Hoove said. “You need some serious coaching.”

“Well, I’m glad you can’t. If you think waving is weird, can you imagine how everyone would react if I showed up with a ghost? Oh yeah, there’s nothing weird about that.”

After a quick breakfast of shredded wheat and milk, Billy set out for school. He felt good about the fact that Breeze allowed him to walk with her. It was unusual for a sixth grader to walk to school with a seventh grader, especially with one who had her own band and tons of friends at Moorepark. He tried to match her confidence, and began to strut in the most Hoover-like way he could.

“Did your jeans shrink in the wash or something?” Breeze asked him as they rounded the corner of their block and headed up Moorepark Avenue.

“No. Why?”

“You’re walking funny. Like you have a giant wedgie.”

Billy decided that maybe the strut wasn’t for him, and he resumed his normal gait, which was like a pony learning to trot. He had always been small, and he found it easiest to keep up if he trotted.

When Billy and Breeze reached school, Breeze was immediately surrounded by her friends, who led her off to get hot chocolate at the cafeteria, leaving Billy alone at the foot of the steps.

“Don’t trip,” he said to himself as he walked up the stairs.

And he didn’t.

That was good. The day was already off to a much better start than his miserable first day. As he walked in the front door, Billy passed Ricardo Perez, who was getting a drink of water. Ricardo nodded to him, and Billy gave him a Hoove-style nod back. It must have worked, because Ricardo actually spoke to him.

“Look who’s here. The new assistant scorekeeper. Got your pencils sharpened?”

“It’s kind of a drag,” Billy answered. “I was hoping to play.”

“You got to show Coach you’re developing your skills. The last scorekeeper eventually made the team. Never got a hit, but he learned to spit sunflower shells farther than anybody else.”

“Thanks, Ricardo. You’re a pal. I really appreciate the encouragement.”

“Here’s a tip, dude. Get yourself a pack of sunflower seeds and start practicing.”

Billy was amazed at how nice this guy was. So far, his day had been perfect. The opposite of the day before. Maybe his mother was right when she said that it was just a matter of time until he’d feel right at home in his new school.

Billy’s morning classes couldn’t have gone smoother. In math, Mr. Bentley asked him to go to the board and solve a problem, and not only did he get it right, he noticed that Ruby
Baker seemed to be impressed with his mathematical skills. She didn’t say that outright, of course, but he thought he noticed her smiling at him for a split second as he headed back to his seat.

After class, when he stopped by his new locker to put his books away, he was able to open the combination on the first try. It seemed like everything was falling into place.

Even at lunch, he didn’t have to sit by himself. Ricardo and a couple of the guys from the baseball team hadn’t objected when he sat at their table. His seat was at the very end of the table, but still, that was a lot better than sitting by himself.

As he sat in the outside lunch pavilion, the warm California sun beaming down on him, Billy unwrapped his peanut butter, jelly, and potato chip sandwich with a sense of well-being that was entirely new to him. To make the day even better, Ruby Baker and several of the cross-country girls had stopped at Billy’s table on their way out of the salad bar line. There they all were, talking and laughing.