I can throw a perfect spiral. Not only that, I can throw it hard, a spiral with speed. Humphrey was surprised by my football-throwing prowess—I saw it in his perfectly open and transparent face, the fair and transparent face of a blond, surprised in a totally delighted way. This was at the start of our summer together, when Humphrey and I were first getting to know each other.
“You can do that?” he squealed after the ball bounced out of his arms.
“I just did, didn’t I?”
“It wasn’t an accident?”
“Gimme the ball,” I said, “babysittee.”
“If you’re the babysitter,” he had said on my first day, “then I’m the babysittee.”
“Law talk with his father,” Mrs. Danker had explained. “Employer, employee. Promisor, promisee.” She ran her hand gently over her son’s crew cut. “You’ll get used to Humphrey and his words.”
Now he threw the ball in my direction. We were, I figured, about fifteen feet apart. His throw didn’t even make it halfway. I retrieved the ball, backed up to put some distance between us, and launched another spiral. It was right to him, but the kid didn’t have a chance. He really couldn’t catch the ball.
“Wow!” Humphrey yelled. “Can you teach me?”
I don’t know football. I don’t follow the Ravens or Redskins, don’t go to high school games, don’t follow college play. But I do like to throw and catch a football.
“I don’t know if I can teach you, exactly,” I told Humphrey. “But I can play catch with you. I can help you practice.”
“Oh, come on—teach me how to throw a spiral!”
I tried. I know nothing about the mechanics of passing, but I looked at my hands on the ball and tried to place Humphrey’s hands like mine. No way. He had pretty big hands, it seemed to me, for a little kid—he’ll be tall when he grows up, I thought—but he still couldn’t really grip the football.
“Come on, Danielle,” Humphrey said after sixteen unsuccessful attempts. “Try something different!”
“Follow me!” I exclaimed, running away from him. “To the spaceship!”
On the edge of the field was a small, kind of sad, toddler playground. It had a swing set, three bumblebees mounted on springs, a climbing gym about as big as a king-size bed, and a roundabout. It was deserted, as it usually was, not only because it was just about dinnertime, but also because there was a much better playground with all the latest equipment a few miles away.
I let Humphrey catch up with me. “To the spaceship!” he screamed. “Hurry, before they get us!”
Humphrey reached the roundabout, which was, as it had been on previous visits to this park, our spaceship.
“Don’t leave me behind, Humphrey!” I pleaded. “Don’t let them get me!”
When I reached the roundabout, I grabbed hold of one of the handles and spun it around a few times, creating momentum before I jumped on opposite Humphrey.
“Takeoff!” he screamed joyfully.
“Into the atmosphere!”
“Away from the … away from the …”
“Aliens!” I prompted him.
“Away from the aliens!” Humphrey said.
The roundabout spun for a surprisingly long time.
“Coming in for a landing,” I said as we slowed down. “And … we’re here.”
Humphrey jumped off. “A new planet,” he said. “It’s never been discovered.”
“We’ll have to name it, then,” I said.
Humphrey looked at the bumblebees and bugged out his eyes. Pointing, he screamed, “New aliens!”
“But could they be … friendly aliens?” I asked.
“Let’s see,” Humphrey said. He approached the bumblebees slowly. “I come in peace,” he said, stretching out his hands. “Look, Danielle, they want me to ride them.”
“That’s very friendly,” I said.
He climbed on the back of a bumblebee that used to be blue—most of the paint was worn off—and rocked himself to get the springy action going. After about a minute he stopped and got off. “Thanks, Bumble-Boo,” Humphrey said. “His name is Bumble-Boo.”
“That’s a fine name,” I said. “And the planet’s name is …”
“The planet is Thrumble-Boo,” Humphrey said.
“Thrumble-Boo?” I said. “Not Crumble-Boo? Maybe it’s made up of cookie crumbs. Or Strumble-Boo? Maybe everyone here strums a banjo. Or Dumble-Boo? Maybe it’s only for dumb aliens.”
Humphrey fixed his serious green-eyed stare on me. “It is not for dumb aliens. There are no banjos or cookie crumbs. It’s Thrumble-Boo. It’s Thrumble-Boo because of … the thrumbles.”
After a return spaceship ride to planet Earth, we set out for the walk home. Quarry Road was crammed with cars, slowly making their way in rush hour. I stretched out my free hand—the one not holding the football against my hip—and Humphrey took it.
“Danielle,” Humphrey said.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
“When I told you to try something different before, I meant you should try something different to teach me how to throw a spiral.”
Huh, I thought. And here I’d assumed that after sixteen efforts Humphrey had been ready to move on.
“Sorry, Humpty,” I said. “I thought you were tired of that.”
“No, Dumpty,” said Humphrey. “I’m very persistent.”
“You’re persistent?” I asked. “Are you also a genius? How do you know the word ‘persistent’?”
“I know lots of long p words,” Humphrey said.
Long p words?
“Like what else?” I asked.
He thought. It was one thing to know them, another to remember them.
“Um,” he said. “I forget. And anyway, I’m hungry!”
Twenty minutes later, Humphrey was sitting at his kitchen table shoveling SpaghettiOs into his mouth, followed by chasers of chicken tenders and cut-up apple chunks. His favorite meal.
“I remember some of my other long p words, Danielle,” he said.
“I’m listening.”
He swallowed before launching into his lexicon: Particular. Persnickety. Pugnacious.
“Wow,” I said. “You are one smart boy.”
He thanked me and continued.
Predictable. Prognosis. Perculiar.
“Pe-culiar,” I corrected him.
“Per-culiar,” he corrected me back. “My dad told me.”
I seriously doubted that. I seriously doubted that the esteemed Thomas R. Danker, Esq., a famous lawyer who argues cases in front of the United States Supreme Court, gave his son incorrect instruction on how to pronounce a p word.
“It really is pe-culiar, Humpty,” I said.
“I like per-culiar,” he said.
I looked at his SpaghettiOs-stained face and smiled.
“I like perculiar, too,” I said.