Thirty-five

“If you win, you can have your stupid bulletin board back.”

Kaley T. crossed her arms over her chest. Kaley C. crossed her arms, too. They shot each other a look that clearly said, “Doesn’t matter what we bet. These loser dweebs are never getting their bulletin board back.” They smiled when they did it.

We were standing on the sidelines in front of the Artful Dodgers’ jail. The game was about to start, and the gym had filled up considerably. Most of the crowd was sitting on the Basketball Blast side, gearing up to cheer on the girls’ basketball team. The Artful Dodgers still had a smattering of diehard fans on our side, though: Mom, Beech, Sam’s grandpa, some lady knitting what looked like a really long scarf (she had to be Great-Aunt Bernice), and the other Artful Dodgers’ parents. The smell of popcorn wafted in from the carnival. Voices rumbled, feet clanked against the metal bleachers, and the louder the noise grew, the more sure I was that my heart would pound a dent right into my rib cage.

And now here were the Kaleys, standing side by side in their screaming pink tie-dyed Basketball Blast T-shirts and knee-high socks, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, staring us down as they tried to make a bet on our bulletin board.

“So?” said Kaley T. “Do we have a deal?”

The Artful Dodgers shot one another looks. Confused looks. Suspicious looks. Was this a joke? Some kind of mind trick to throw us off our game?

“What do you get if you win?” I said.

“You mean when we win?” Kaley T. rolled her eyes at Kaley C. “We get the bulletin board forever, no matter how much you whine to Mr. Petrucelli, no matter how many people you talk into signing up for your pathetic little club. Even if you get half the school—”

“The loser half,” muttered Kaley C.

“—it won’t matter. We keep the bulletin board.”

Art Club was even more suspicious now.

But before we could figure out what to say, a low rasp split the air: “We’ll take that bet.”

I turned. Dillon towered over me. Over all of us.

He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Pink team’s just worried,” he said. “Art Club already signed up a bunch of new members. If these guys would get to work”—he raised an eyebrow at Owen and Curtis, who tried to slink behind Gretchen—“they could drag in a few more of their basketball buddies, and bam, the bulletin board would be ours. Pink team’s trying to stop that from happening. They’re desperate.”

Dillon Zawicki had taken one look at the Kaleys and figured out exactly what they were up to. There was a real brain ticking inside his T. rex body.

“Desperate?” Kaley T. nearly shrieked. “Ugh!”

She and Kaley C. turned on their sneakers (with matching pink laces) and stalked back to their side of the gym, muttering as they went.

“See? You try to help somebody and this is what you get,” muttered Kaley T.

“I don’t even know why these art losers signed up. They don’t belong here,” muttered Kaley C.

“No kidding. Don’t they know this is a sport? We’re going to slaughter them.”

And then they giggled.

Dillon turned to me. “Don’t worry. We got this.”

He slapped me a high-five. About slapped my arm off.

The ref gave the signal and the players trotted onto the court—the Basketball Blast in matching pink vs. the Artful Dodgers with our cool black hats pulled snugly onto our heads (and one completely uncool red vest dangling from Spencer’s scrawny shoulders).

We lined up. The crowd hushed. The ref blew her whistle and the opening rush was on.

The Blast weren’t as organized as the Checkmates had been. But they were a lot faster, a lot stronger, and a heck of a lot more bloodthirsty. And anybody who ever laughed at someone for throwing like a girl clearly never saw a girl throw.

They whipped to the line, scooped back the balls, and started firing. And just that fast, Martin and Olivia went down, victims of ankle shots. They trudged over to sit in our jail.

The Blast kept firing. Balls pummeled us from every direction.

I have to be honest. The Artful Dodgers were stunned. It took us a few minutes to find our dodgeball legs, and by that time we were down six players. Half our team.

But Owen was right. He said most dodgeball games were every player for himself—or herself. Chasing down balls. Slamming them into the other team. Nobody passing. Nobody working together. Everybody trying to be the rock star.

That’s exactly what the Blast was doing.

And once we figured it out, once we got over the initial shock, once we got into our own rhythm, we started taking advantage of it.

Owen caught a ball in one arm, then a ball in the other, and just like that—bang, bang—two Blast players were out, and Martin and Gretchen were back in.

The Artful Dodgers kept dodging. Kept catching. Kept scooping up balls, passing to our best throwers, deflecting the other team’s attention while our best throwers hammered them. We synchronized our efforts, stuck to our strategy, just like we practiced.

And the Blast kept doing what they did, which was that every single one of them gritted her teeth, played her own game, did everything she could to be Last Player Standing.

And one by one, they started going down.

We whittled away at their team till it was just the Kaleys and Emma against five of us.

Emma fired a ball at Owen’s feet. It missed and bounced wide.

Spencer darted and dodged across the court, snatched up the ball, and whipped it backwards. Whipped it to me.

Emma had just thrown, was off balance, not looking at me. Making herself the perfect target.

I pulled the ball back. Steeled myself.

I hated throwing at Emma. I didn’t want to be the one to take her down.

But just as I was taking aim, just as I was zeroing in on her ankles, another ball came whizzing from behind. About took my ear off. It whizzed past and—smack—hit Emma in the knee.

“Out!” called the ref.

I glanced over my shoulder.

Dillon gave me a quick chin lift. “Got your back, bro.”

Emma dropped her ball and jogged toward her team’s jail.

I felt bad for her because, well, she was Emma. But with her out, I could concentrate better on the game. Plus now we only had two players to target: Kaley T. and Kaley C.

Kaley C. seemed stunned. She lost focus for a second as she watched Emma leave the court.

And—bam—Dillon hammered her with a dodgeball.

And just like that, they were down to one. One player—Kaley T.—against five Artful Dodgers.

I clenched my fists. We had this. We could do it.

But Kaley T. was just as determined we couldn’t.

“I am not letting a bunch of loser dweebs beat me,” she growled.

She bared her teeth like a cornered tiger and started bombarding us.

Owen went down.

Then Gretchen.

Then me.

I trudged to our jail.

Only two Artful Dodgers left: Spencer and Dillon.

Which was okay. Great, in fact. If we could only have two players, those were the two I’d want: the kid who threw like a cannon and the kid who was impossible to hit.

Spencer did his thing: dodging and scooping. And Dillon did his: snatching up the balls Spencer scooped to him and firing them—BAM, BAM, BAM—at Kaley.

I have to give Kaley T. credit. She dodged. She weaved. She kept out of the line of fire for longer than I thought she would.

But then Dillon had her. He did. Kaley leaned over to snatch up a ball, and in that split second, he hurled his own dodgeball. Like a rocket, it shot across the gym.

Smack.

Slammed into her knee—

Yes!

—then popped up.

Popped straight up, almost in slow motion.

Kaley dropped her own ball and reached for it. Reached for it and gathered it in. Tripped and fell backwards, and I thought for sure the ball would bounce loose. But it didn’t. She held on to it, clasped it against her chest as she went down. It was a catch. A fair catch. She’d caught Dillon’s dodgeball.

“Out!” called the ref.

Dillon stood there, mouth open, before shaking his head and trudging toward our jail.

And now it was just Kaley T. . . . against Spencer. And his jumble of knees and elbows. And his hand-knitted vest.

And his total lack of throwing skill.

Spencer dodged and darted, bobbed and bounced. Kaley threw. And threw. And threw.

Missed every time, which wasn’t a surprise to anyone. Spencer threw too. He had to. Each team had to throw at least every ten seconds, and Spencer was the only player our team had left.

Kaley was getting tired, I could tell. Tired of watching Spencer jump around. Tired of her throws completely missing. Tired of not winning the game already.

She hauled back and fired again.

Hard.

Too hard.

The throw was high.

Kaley T. knew it the minute she released the ball. She scrambled to fire off another one before Spencer could catch it.

Spencer hadn’t caught another single ball during the whole tournament, but he didn’t let that stop him.

“I goooooot iiiiiiit,” he called as he careened about the gym, vest flapping, trying to keep a bead on the ball.

Our jail rose to its toes, fists clenched, watching him.

The ball dropped. Thumped against his chest. And thumped right out again. Spencer scrambled. Pulled it back in. Tried to cradle it against his chest, but it got tangled in his knitted vest. One sneaker twisted under him and Spencer went down. Tumbled backwards, landed with a thud, butt first. The ball popped loose—

—and dropped into his lap.

Spencer clamped his arms down over it.

“Out!” called the ref. “Game over.”

I whooped and threw my fist in the air. “Way to go, Spencer!”

“WHAT?” Kaley T. stormed toward the ref. “That’s not fair! Did you see his stupid vest? He should be—”

I didn’t hear the rest. The Artful Dodgers had erupted from our jail. Swarmed Spencer. Pulled him to his feet. Mrs. Frazee clapped and jangled. Coach Wilder allowed himself a low, tight fist pump and a sharp “Yeah!” as he paced along the sideline. Our end of the bleachers cheered. Even some of the Basketball Blast fans clapped, and someone from their side yelled, “Nice catch, dude!” Which made Spencer’s eyes pop wide, and he started dancing in a little circle. Noah jumped up and down, waving the clipboard. Even Sam stood up. Noah grabbed her wrist so that at least her arm could jump up and down with him, and she didn’t stop him.

Then one voice rose above the roar, clear and bright, like a shiny silver bell: “Great game, Tucker!”

I stopped. Glanced around the gym. It was Emma. She’d come out of the Blast’s jail and was standing on the sidelines near midcourt, where Kaley T. was still nose to nose with the ref, whining about Spencer’s catch.

Emma beamed her mind-jamming smile on me. Gave me a thumbs-up. “Good luck in the championship!” she called out.

I nodded. And stood there in the middle of the gym—in the middle of the leaping, whooping, group-hugging Artful Dodgers—woozy from pure joy, till somebody slapped me a high-five.

I blinked. Dragged my attention back to earth.

Spencer stood in front of me, bouncing from foot to foot, his high-five still waving in the air.

“I told you this was my lucky vest!” he shouted.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “Lucky!”

And before I could turn around again to see if Emma was still watching, Dillon came thundering up. Came thundering up and leaped. Dillon Zawicki. Leaped right at me. It wasn’t till he hit me that I realized we were doing a chest bump. It was a chest bump with a Sherman tank.

He chest-bumped the wind out of me. Chest-bumped my T-shirt right into my skin. Chest-bumped me to the floor.

I lay on my back on the cold, hard wood, gasping.

“Got our bulletin board back.” He reached down with one enormous ball-throwing hand and pulled me up. “Now we go after the helmet.”