Skinnybones, Page 2

  Two people didn’t laugh at all, though.

  One was T.J. Stoner.

  The other one was Miss Henderson.

  I sat down and shut up.

  I may be funny. But I’m not totally stupid.

  chapter three

  REEKIN’ AND STINKIN’ AND A LITTIE DO-SI-DO

  Sometimes I think it would be fun to be a school principal. Especially in the summer. In the summer, a school principal spends his time composing lists of all the kids in the school who hate each other. Then he makes sure they end up in the same class together.

  My principal really must have had a good laugh when he put T.J. and me together again this year. Ever since my music teacher sent me to the office for getting my head caught in a tuba, my principal hasn’t seemed to like me much.

  When I first discovered the news that T.J. was in my class, I went straight to my mother. I was hoping that she would call the school and have me switched.

  But no such luck. All Mom did was tell me I should try to ignore him. Seriously. She’s always giving me great advice like that. Then she hands me my lunch, shoves me out the door, and her problems are over for the day. Mine are just beginning.

  Last year, T.J. Stoner grew to be the biggest kid in the whole fifth grade. When I began to notice how gigantic he was getting, I decided it might not be a bad idea to try to get on his good side. But T.J. didn’t seem too interested. When I asked if he wanted to be friends, I believe his exact words were, “Get out of my face, toad-sucker.”

  “Would that be a no?” I asked.

  T.J. grabbed me by the shoulders.

  “That would be an I hate your slimy guts, Frankovitch,” he said.

  I smiled. “Oh, come on, T.J. Can’t our slimy guts be friends?” I asked.

  T.J. didn’t think that was quite as funny as I did. I could tell by the way he pushed me down and pinned my face under his foot.

  “You think you’re such a funny guy, don’t you, you skinny little bag of bones?” he said.

  It’s too bad my mother wasn’t there. Maybe she could have told me how to ignore someone’s Nike in your mouth.

  I think the worst thing about being in the same room with T.J. is having him in my P.E. class. I hate to admit it, but he really is a great athlete. For a kid, T.J. Stoner is the best ballplayer I’ve ever seen.

  There’s only one sport that I’m better at than T.J.

  It’s square dancing.

  I figure I can count square dancing as a sport because we do it in P.E. You ought to see me. I can do-si-do better than any other kid in the whole school.

  One time I asked the P.E. teacher, Mr. McGuinsky, if he had ever thought about starting a school square dancing team. I told him that if he did, I would volunteer to be the team captain.

  Mr. McGuinsky thought I was being a smart aleck. He told me to sit my butt down and shut up. In case you never noticed, P.E. teachers enjoy saying “butt” a lot.

  Anyway, I do play other sports besides square dancing. Like T.J., I’ve played Little League baseball for six years now. But to tell you the truth, I’m not exactly what you’d call a real good athlete. Actually, I’m not even real okay. Basically, what I’m trying to say here is, I stink.

  I’ve got proof, too. Every single year that I’ve played Little League, I’ve received the trophy for Most Improved Player.

  Now, at first, you might think that means I sound pretty good … which is what I used to think, too. But over the past six years, I’ve noticed that none of the really outstanding players ever gets the Most Improved Player award. And the reason is simple. The outstanding players are already so outstanding they can’t improve much. Let’s face it, the only players on a team who can improve are the ones who reek to begin with.

  Last year, at the end of baseball season, I tried to explain how I felt to my father. We were sitting together at the Little League awards ceremony, and the announcer was calling the names of all the players who were going to be receiving trophies.

  I started squirming around in my seat.

  “Just relax, Alex,” said my dad. “It won’t be the end of the world if you don’t win Most Improved again this year.”

  He didn’t get it at all.

  “No, see, that’s just it, Dad,” I said, trying to explain. “I don’t want to get Most Improved again. I mean, I don’t want to sound like a poor sport or anything, but if they call my name, let’s just pretend we’re not here. What do you say, Dad? We could do that, couldn’t we?”

  I could tell by his face that he was shocked.

  “Pretend we’re not here?” he blustered. “Why in the world would we pretend we’re not here?”

  “Shh … Dad … not so loud! It’s just embarrassing to get another Improved award, that’s all. I don’t want it.”

  “You don’t want it? What do you mean, you don’t want it? I can’t believe I’m hearing this. How ungrateful can you get, Alex? Do you know how many kids here would love to get that award tonight?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I know,” I answered. “But that’s only because nobody else has ever gotten it five times in a row. Don’t you see a pattern here? Every year I start out totally reeking and end up only stinking. Then the next year I start out reeking again. Is that supposed to make me proud?”

  All of a sudden, we heard it.

  My name … being called over the microphone!

  “ALEX FRANKOVITCH. MOST IMPROVED PLAYER AWARD FOR TEAM NUMBER SEVEN—PRESTON’S PEST CONTROL!”

  Quick as anything, I slid down in my seat so that no one could see me. My father grabbed my arm to make me stand up. But I doubled over and put my head between my knees.

  “ALEX FRANKOVITCH? IS ALEX HERE?” the announcer called again.

  My father jumped up from his seat and pointed at me. At least that’s what I think he did. By then, I was wadded into a tight little ball

  “HERE HE IS, RIGHT HERE! ALEX FRANKOVITCH IS RIGHT HERE!” my dad yelled.

  Everyone started clapping. A few of the kids who knew me started shouting, “WE WANT ALEX … WE WANT ALEX!”

  Finally, I just had no choice. I stood up and started making my way down the bleachers. On my way down, I decided that me and dear old Dad were finished. Kaput! Finito!

  When I got to the bottom, I spotted T.J. Stoner. He had already received his zillionth Most Valuable Player trophy and was sitting in the front row, pointing at me and laughing. Just pointing and laughing.

  I hated it. I mean, I just couldn’t let him get away with making fun of me like that, you know? So I decided the only thing to do was pretend that I was actually enjoying myself.

  I walked to the middle of the gym floor, turned around, and started taking bows and throwing kisses. Then I walked over to the table to pick up my trophy.

  The announcer handed me the microphone. I was supposed to say thank you. But instead, I took the microphone …

  Held it up to my mouth …

  And burped.

  The whole audience went nuts like you wouldn’t believe. At least that’s the way it sounded. But looking back, it was probably only the kids who went nuts. Grownups don’t usually think burping is all that comical.

  Anyway, after I threw a few more kisses, I ducked out the gym door and walked home.

  I knew I was in big trouble. So I went straight to my room and waited for my father. I just wanted to get it over with.

  While I was waiting, I made a sign and hung it on the outside of my door. The sign read:

  THIS ROOM BELONGS TO ALEX FRANKOVITCH,

  THE ONLY BOY IN THE WHOLE WORLD

  WHO HAS GONE FROM

  TOTALLY REEKING TO ONLY STINKING

  6 YEARS IN A ROW.

  When Dad saw the sign, he didn’t bother coming into my room to yell at me. I guess he figured I already felt bad enough.

  For once, he figured right.

  chapter four

  THEY’RE MAGICALLY DELICIOUS

  For me, the worst part about belonging to Little League is the uniform
s. Every year at the first practice, the same thing happens. The coach shouts out your name, and you have to yell out what size you wear. Right in front of everyone, I mean. You have to yell either large … medium … or small.

  This year there were a total of twelve kids on my team. And the way it looked to me, there would probably be two larges, nine mediums, and one eensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy, practically-the-size-a-baby-would-wear. (Me.)

  Every single year, I am always the smallest kid on the team. I mean it. For the first five years of my life, I thought I was a leprechaun.

  I remember when I was in kindergarten, our teacher asked us to cut out magazine pictures of what we thought we would be when we grew up.

  Most of the boys in my class brought in pictures of baseball or football players. A few others brought in pictures of policemen.

  I brought in a picture of the Lucky Charms guy. I cut it off the front of the cereal box.

  My teacher was pretty worried about it, too. She called me right up to her desk.

  “Alex, what is this a picture of?” she asked.

  “It’s the Lucky Charms guy,” I said.

  She closed her eyes. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to be afraid of the Lucky Charms guy, Mrs. Hurley,” I said. “He gets on your nerves, but he’s not really dangerous.”

  Mrs. Hurley shook her head. “No, Alex. What I don’t understand is why you want to be a leprechaun.”

  “I don’t. I want to be a pilot,” I told her.

  “Then why did you bring this picture?” asked Mrs. Hurley.

  “Because that’s what I’m going to be,” I explained. “That’s what you told us to do, right? You said to bring in a picture of what we were going to be when we grow up.”

  Mrs. Hurley called my mother.

  As soon as I walked in the door that afternoon, Mom sat me right down and we had a talk about being small.

  “Alex, I know that you think you’re too short. But that’s only because you haven’t started to grow as much as some of the other kids yet. Everyone grows at different speeds. But, believe me, you are going to grow. I promise.”

  She took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen. Then she stood me up against the wall near the corner and told me not to move.

  At first, I thought this was some weird new punishment she’d read about in one of those parenting magazines. But instead, she got a pencil and made a mark on the wall at the very top of my head. When I moved away, she wrote the date beside it.

  “Okay,” she said. “Just to prove to you that you’re growing, we’re going to measure you every six months. That way you will be able to see the change for yourself.”

  Well, all I can say is, six months is a long time to wait. Especially when you’re worried about having to go flitting around the countryside dancing a jig in a green top hat.

  When the day finally came to measure me again, I was nervous as anything.

  My mother stood me up against the wall in the same spot where I had been measured before. Then she carefully made another pencil mark.

  I turned to look.

  Half an inch! I had grown almost a whole half an inch!

  I started jumping around all over the place.

  Mom looked as relieved as me. “Now do you believe me?” she asked. “Does this prove to you that you’re getting taller?”

  “Yeah!” I said. “Now all I have to do is gain some weight and grow big feet, and I’ll practically be a real boy.”

  My mother threw up her hands in frustration. “I give up, Alex! I swear! You’re never satisfied!”

  Sometimes she just doesn’t understand me at all. Being small is not an easy thing to be. Especially when you’re in Little League, and you have to shout out your size in front of your whole entire team.

  “Alex Frankovitch?” called my coach. “Small, medium, or large?”

  No. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t shout small again. Not in sixth grade.

  I swallowed hard. Then I made my voice as deep as I could and yelled, “Large!”

  The coach looked up and gave me the eyeball. “Excuse me, son … but did you say ‘large’?”

  “Yes, sir. Large. That’s what I said. Alex Frankovitch takes a large,” I repeated.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Frankovitch? Are you absolutely, positively sure that large is the size you usually order?” he persisted.

  “Yup. Yup, I am. I’m absolutely, positively sure. Large. That’s the size I order. I order a large. Alex Frankovitch orders a large.”

  The coach rolled his eyes and shook his head. I’m pretty sure I heard him mutter the word bean-brain too. But I really didn’t care what he thought. The important thing was that, finally—after all these years—I hadn’t had to shout out the word small.

  I couldn’t wait for the day the uniforms came in. I was sure it would be the best day of my life. I even had a dream about it.

  In my dream, the coach had all the uniforms arranged in just two piles—smalls and larges—and he was calling out names and sizes. As soon as you heard your name, you had to go to the correct pile and pick up your uniform.

  “ALEX FRANKOVITCH! LARGE!” he announced, loud as anything.

  I stood up real slow and cool. Then I strolled over to the large pile to choose my pants and shirt. But when I got there, I found out that mine was the only uniform in the large pile. The only one, get it? All the other guys were smalls! And here’s where it gets good … because when I reached out to pick up my large shirt, the whole team jumped up and started cheering! Because of how large I was and all!

  It was the best dream I ever had. I swear. And, when the team uniforms finally came in—after three whole weeks of waiting—at least part of my dream was about to come true. I’d have my large shirt!

  I was the first kid at practice that day. When I arrived, my coach was already arranging everything in piles. My heart started pounding like crazy. It was just like in my dream! I felt as if I had seen into the future or something.

  As soon as he was finished, the coach told us to line up single-file. Then one by one, we were to go to the correct pile and pick out a uniform. I have to admit, this wasn’t quite as good as if he had announced my name and size. But still, all I really cared about was getting my large.

  As soon as it was my turn, I rushed right over and grabbed a large shirt and pair of pants. Then I sort of hung around the large pile for a while just so everyone would notice.

  Finally, when all the piles were gone, the coach told us to check our uniforms to make sure we had gotten the right size.

  That’s when I heard some of the guys starting to laugh. When I turned around, I saw Randy Tubbs trying to pull his new shirt over his head. It was stuck on his ears, and his eyes were bulging out where it was cutting off his circulation.

  The coach helped Randy pull the shirt off. He looked inside to see what size it was.

  “This is a small, Randy,” he said. “You’re supposed to have a large.”

  Randy shrugged. “It’s all that was left,” he said.

  Right away, the coach started looking on his list, trying to figure out what had happened. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

  Slowly, I started backing off the field. But the coach spotted me.

  “Hold it, Alex! Wait!” he called. “Would you bring your uniform back here a minute, please?”

  I felt sick. Sicker than I’d ever felt before. But there was nothing I could do except go back.

  Reluctantly, I handed him my shirt and pants and pointed at the tag. “See, Coach? See? It’s a large, just like you ordered for me,” I said.

  The coach just shook his head. “Alex, I ordered you a small. A large would eat you up and spit you out.”

  Then he gave my uniform to Randy and handed me the eensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy, practically-the-size-a-baby-would-wear … small.

  It was one of the lowest moments of my life.

  When I got home, I went to my room and tried it on. Tha
nks to Randy and his giant dome, the neck was all stretched out, and it drooped down to my stomach.

  My mother came in and told me not to worry. She said the shirt would probably shrink when it was washed.

  As soon as she left, my pants fell down.

  chapter five

  HAS ANYONE SEEN MY VELVET PILLOW?

  T.J. Stoner brags about his baseball team more than any kid I’ve ever known in my whole life. So what if his team hasn’t lost a game all year? It doesn’t mean they won just because of him. Everybody knows that just one person can’t make the difference between a winning team and a losing team. After all, every single team I’ve ever been on has come in last place. And I don’t care what anyone says, all those teams didn’t lose just because of me … probably.

  Anyway, this year I know for a fact that I am not the worst player on my team. The worst player on my team is Ryan Brady. Ryan broke his arm the first game of the season, and now all he does is sit on the bench. I’m sure I help the team out more than Ryan does … probably.

  I play right field. A lot of kids automatically think that if you play in the outfield, it means you can’t catch or throw. But my father says that’s ridiculous. He says that outfielders are just as good as infielders. He told me that when he was a boy, he played in right field just like me.

  That really doesn’t make me feel much better, though. I’ve seen Dad play. He can’t catch or throw.

  My mother says that when people like T.J. Stoner brag, they’re just trying to get attention. As usual, she says to ignore them. But for some reason, whenever I hear T.J. start to brag about his baseball team, I just can’t seem to keep my big mouth shut.

  Like one day, a few weeks ago, I heard him spouting off to a bunch of kids at the playground.

  “My coach told me I’m one of the best Little League pitchers in the whole country this year,” he bragged.

  As soon as I heard him say it, my mouth went right out of control. I started talking real loud to my friend Brian Dunlop.

  “HEY, BRIAN. I FORGOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY BASEBALL PRACTICE LAST NIGHT. MY COACH LET ME TRY OUT FOR PITCHER AND HE SAID I HAD ONE OF THE BEST CURVE BALLS HE’S EVER SEEN.”