What About Will Page 8

What school do you go to?

  “Rainbow Ridge.”

  She smiles. Cool. That’s where

  I’ll be going, too. It will be

  good to know somebody there.

  What Are the Odds?

  Only a couple of other

  Padres players go to RRCS.

  “How come you’re not going

  to some fancy private school?”

  Her dad hears my question.

  Oh, we looked into them.

  But Cat was dead set against it.

  I went to one in LA the last

  couple of years. The teachers

  insisted on calling me Catalina,

  and all the girls talked about

  was boy bands and phones.

  And all Cat did was complain.

  We told her every school is different,

  and that includes private schools.

  Yeah, but I’d rather be just

  a regular kid. The kind that

  plays baseball and stuff.

  She’s a good student, but loses

  interest in learning if she’s unhappy.

  Valid. Wonder just how

  good of a student she is.

  Gifted and talented?

  I’m betting probably.

  Dad Takes Lily Home

  But instead of dropping her off,

  we go inside because she followed

  through and we’re having Mexican

  food for dinner.

  Her house looks small on the outside,

  but the living room, dining room, and kitchen

  are like one giant open space.

  You can tell a lady lives here.

  Our walls are all off-white, but hers

  are painted sunset colors—rose

  and apricot and yellow gold.

  Her furniture is kind of plain.

  But there are pillows and cushions

  with sunflowers and watering cans,

  roosters, geese, and cows.

  They turn everything pretty.

  Make yourselves at home, boys.

  I have to put the enchiladas

  in the oven to heat them up.

  “My pants are kind of dirty.

  I don’t want to mess up your couch.”

  Oh. Don’t worry about that.

  Sylvester doesn’t.

  “Who’s Sylvester?”

  Lily Points

  Toward the sliding glass

  door past the dining room

  table. Standing just outside

  on the shady back porch

  is a big cocoa-colored dog.

  It looks sort of like a huge

  poodle, except fuzzier.

  “What kind is he?”

  A Labradoodle. Is it okay

  if I let him in? He’s friendly.

  I would’ve guessed that

  by his goofy dog grin. “Sure!”

  I love dogs, and always wanted

  one, but Mom and Dad both

  said they were too much work.

  Sylvester boings across the floor,

  skids to a stop right in front of me.

  “Hey, Sylvester.” I reach out my hand

  and he ducks his head under it,

  asking to be petted. Hey, no problem.

  You two get acquainted,

  says Dad. I’ll see if Lily

  needs help in the kitchen.

  “One second, Dad.”

  He looks anxious to join

  Lily. Probably wants a kiss.

  But he pauses long enough

  to ask, What is it?

  “Did you give Will some money?”

  I did. Why do you ask?

  “And Lily did, too?”

  Yeah. I was a little short.

  “What did he want it for?”

  He said his car needed an oil

  change. You’ve got to keep up

  on those things, you know.

  Allowance money can’t cover it.

  Sounds reasonable.

  Why do I doubt it?

  It was nice he came to your game

  and got to meet Lily, though, huh?

  Pretty sure he just came

  to get the money, but all

  I say is “Uh-huh. Real nice.”

  Should I Confess

  That I’m scared for Will?

  I’m not even sure exactly why,

  so probably not. At least,

  not until I have a solid reason.

  I suspect . . .

  I guess . . .

  I think . . .

  I worry . . .

  Those are not solid reasons.

  Dad goes to help Lily,

  and Sylvester finds a ball,

  drops it on the floor at my feet,

  focuses his big brown eyes on me.

  I understand what that means

  more than I understand

  what’s going on with my brother.

  “You wanna play fetch?”

  It’s like I flipped a switch.

  He gets all excited, starts

  wagging his tail, gives a little yip.

  I think I’ve made a new friend.

  “Can I take Sylvester outside

  to play with the ball?” I yell.

  Of course, agrees Lily.

  Sylvester is already at the door.

  He turns, telling me, Hurry up!

  Check it out. I speak Labradoodle.

  Lily has a huge fenced yard,

  with grass and lots of flowers.

  Guess Sylvester isn’t much

  into digging stuff up, because

  it’s all really pretty.

  I stand on the porch, throw

  the ball across the yard.

  The dog is quick. Prefers

  catching midair to chasing

  on the ground. But either

  way, he loves to play.

  After twenty or thirty rounds,

  he drops the ball by the door,

  lies down beside it. Guess

  we’re officially finished.

  “Good boy,” I tell him.

  His tail moves side to side,

  slower than before. He’s tired.

  Come to think of it, so am I.

  Tired and hungry.

  Enchiladas, here I come!

  Lily’s a Super Cook

  The enchiladas are as good

  as any I’ve had in a restaurant.

  By the time Dad and I are ready

  to leave, I’m stuffed to the max.

  Lily sends the leftovers home

  for Will, or for us to snack on later.

  Sylvester follows us to the door.

  “See ya, boy. Next time we’ll play longer.”

  Which means I figure we’ll be back.

  Dad definitely thinks so, too.

  You don’t always have to do

  the cooking, he says to Lily.

  We can certainly fire up the grill.

  I’m a decent barbecuer, eh, Trace?

  “Uh, sure, Dad. Maybe let Lily

  help you out, though.”

  They both laugh, so they get

  my not really so funny joke.

  When Dad kisses Lily goodbye,

  it only jabs a little.

  Not as bad as last time.

  Sunday Morning, I Sleep In

  As the light grows brighter,

  part of my brain insists

  I need to open my eyes.

  Another part is holding me

  stuck in a really nic
e dream.

  Will and I are playing keep-away

  catch with Sylvester while Dad

  barbecues and Mom sits on

  a porch swing and sings.

  It’s a mash-up, but a happy one,

  so when I finally wake up

  all the way, I’m in a good mood.

  Only I wish Mom and Sylvester

  were really here.

  My stomach growls, telling me

  it’s past time for breakfast,

  so I get dressed. On my way

  to the kitchen, I pass Will,

  hunched over on the couch,

  checking out my baseball glove,

  which I must’ve left on the end table.

  He looks up with droopy eyes

  when I go by. Hey. What’s this?

  “The autograph? It’s Victor

  Sánchez’s. He signed it yesterday.”

  I Give Him the Details

  He actually seems impressed.

  Wow. That’s awesome.

  Victor Sánchez is a legend.

  “You could’ve met him, too.

  Why did you leave so fast?”

  Yeah, sorry. I had to meet

  up with someone.

  “I thought you were getting

  your oil changed.”

  There it is—the throb

  of blood in his temples.

  It’s not as funny as it was

  when I was a little kid, though.

  I had to do both. Oh, hey, dude.

  Who won your game, anyway?

  Way to change the subject.

  “We did. Five–four. Like you care.”

  Now the tips of his ears

  turn red. I said I was sorry.

  “Yeah, Will, I know.

  You’re always sorry.”

  What difference does it make?

  I turn my back on him.

  Stomp into the kitchen, fling

  open the fridge door.

  I didn’t even notice Dad,

  reading a newspaper at the table.

  His voice makes me jump.

  Something wrong, Trace?

  I could tell him. Should tell

  him. But he looks relaxed.

  And his eyes tell me he’s happy.

  Why ruin his mood? Why spoil the day?

  “Oh, no. Everything’s cool.

  Didn’t mean to jerk it so hard.”

  Oh, good. There’s a Dodgers game

  on at one. Wanna watch?

  We used to watch them together

  on his days off all the time.

  But lately, he’s been too busy.

  “No Lily today or what, Dad?”

  No. She’s chaperoning an event.

  But she might stop by later.

  Guess I’m Good With That

  Not that it matters.

  But honestly, I like seeing

  Dad with a smile most of the time.

  Plus, there are perks. “Can I have

  leftover enchiladas for breakfast?”

  If there are any left, go for it.

  There are, and I do.

  It’s the last day of spring break,

  and it’s nice to spend it with Dad.

  Before the game starts,

  we play some catch, just like

  we used to do when I was little.

  Mr. Cobb hears us out in the yard

  and sticks his head over the fence.

  Did I ever tell you about the time

  I had a beer with Sandy Koufax?

  Koufax pitched for the Dodgers

  back before my dad was born.

  He’s a Major League Hall of Famer

  and, according to Mr. Cobb,

  a straight-up nice guy.

  Did I ever tell you about touring

  a brewery, and oo-ee, did that

  place stink to high heaven!

  Mr. Cobb talks so long

  we miss the start of the game,

  but Dad is too polite to say so.

  He might talk even longer

  except a car out front starts up

  and we all look to see who it is.

  Oh, there goes your Will, says

  Mr. Cobb. That boy sure does

  come and go all hours. Does he

  drive for that Uber or something?

  Nah, answers Dad. He isn’t old

  enough. But you know teenagers.

  They always have spring break plans.

  Like what kind, Dad?

  At least it gives us a chance

  to excuse ourselves, go inside.

  It’s the third inning by the time

  we turn on the TV. No score,

  so guess we didn’t miss much.

  But as the Dodgers come to bat,

  I’m wondering why Mr. Cobb

  seems to have noticed Will’s

  unusual schedule.

  And why Dad mostly overlooks it.

  It’s Good

  To go back to school,

  where things make sense.

  A Days:

  science

  math

  computers

  B Days:

  social studies

  English

  PE

  C Days:

  library

  music

  art

  I know what to expect,

  what time to expect it.

  The only variables I worry

  about are the algebra kind.

  Will drives us to Rainbow Charter

  the same way he always does.

  We listen to his favorite radio station,

  which is mostly rap and hip-hop.

  He knows all the words.

  But today he doesn’t sing along.

  “How come you’re so quiet?”

  Will shrugs. Don’t feel so good.

  Think I ate something that

  didn’t agree with my gut.

  “You know what Dad always says.”

  He tries to smile. Yeah. Nothing

  a decent poop couldn’t cure.

  Not so easy to do at school,

  but maybe he should try.

  He turns into the parking lot,

  pulls into his assigned space.

  But when I open my door,

  he just sits, staring out the window.

  “Aren’t you coming inside?”

  In a few. Probably. Trying to

  decide if I should go home

  instead. You head on in.

  Suddenly, he jerks the driver’s

  door open, jams his head outside,

  upchucks all over the pavement.

  “Do you want me to call Dad?”

  No. I feel a little better now.

  But I’m going to take off.

  “What about after school?”

  Don’t worry. I’ll get you home.

  Don’t Worry

  Seems like that’s all I do

  lately, at least when it comes

  to my brother.

  I stop by the office

  before heading to class,

  tell Mrs. Pearson, the school

  secretary, that Will got sick.

  I don’t mention the puke

  in the parking lot.

  Too embarrassing.

  Even if it wasn’t me

  who did it.

  It’s an A Day,

  which means science

  first block for my squad.

  The students here are organized

  int
o teams or squads, and we stay

  together with our teammates

  through all our core classes.

  All the kids on my squad

  are GATE, which means

  our classwork is more difficult.

  Must keep those ultra-curious

  minds engaged is how Ms. Pérez

  puts it. She’s our science teacher.

  As I half expected, we have

  a new kid on our squad.

  Hey, Trace, says Cat when

  I come through the door.

  You two know each other?

  asks Ms. Pérez.

  “Yeah. From Little League.

  We’re on the same team there, too.”

  Good. Why don’t the two of you

  work together on today’s lab?

  This quarter’s STEM project:

  design and build a workable robot.

  We’ll have lots of helpful videos

  and a kit with basic parts,

  but we can make it look however

  we want and assign it a unique task.

  Our math and computer science

  classes will also be involved,

  and at the end, there will be a challenge.

  Epic!

  Okay, It Does Mean

  I’ll be partnered with a girl

  for all my A Day classes.

  At this point, I’m guessing

  that’s not a bad thing.

  Most girls are annoying.

  A few in my class are kind of cute,

  I guess, but the way they flock

  together, always chirping

  and cawing, reminds me of birds.

  I doubt Cat is a chirper.

  As we watch an introduction

  to engineering video, she takes

  notes. Sometimes she writes

  down questions to ask Ms. Pérez.

  I should probably be doing that, too.

  “Hey. Can I copy your notes later?”

  Cat shrugs. They’re for both

  of us. It’s called teamwork.

  After science, we break for lunch.

  We don’t have to stay with

  our squads to eat or at recess.

  I usually hang out with Bram.

  Mostly because we’re buddies,

  but also because his MPU

  (Mom Parental Unit) likes to bake

  and sends pretty good treats.

  I’ve never invited a girl

  to join us. But here’s the thing.

  Cat doesn’t know anyone here.

  At least, I don’t think so.

  “Hey, Cat. You don’t have to

  have lunch with me if you’d rather . . .”