Five

By Wednesday, Monday’s snow had mostly melted. There was still enough snow in shady patches for Ethan and Julius to use in a quick snowball fight on the way home from school, but most of the lawns were bare.

Julius had to go to his orthodontist appointment, so they couldn’t have an after-school meeting of Losers, Inc. Instead, Ethan shot baskets in his driveway all alone. He tried lay-up after lay-up until the muscles in his arms and shoulders began to ache. It was a good kind of ache, the satisfying soreness of muscles training themselves to do what they were supposed to do.

Then Ethan dribbled up and down the driveway as fast and hard as if he were driving down the court with the other team’s guards in hot pursuit. The impact of his hand against the ball, the rhythm of the ball rebounding from the pavement, the tingling warmth in his forearms—it all felt great.

The ball bounced obediently under his hand, as if some force in the ball were responding directly to the force in his cupped fingers. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Ethan felt like a bouncing machine, programmed to keep on bouncing the ball in the same unchanging rhythm forever. Bounce. Bounce. What made a basketball bounce the way it did? Why was it bouncier than a soccer ball, even though both were about the same size and shape? And those tiny little super-balls. Why did they bounce so hard and so high?

Ethan caught the ball on its next up-bounce. He had it! He had the question for his science fair project. He would test all different kinds of balls, bouncing on all different kinds of surfaces, to try to find out which balls bounced the highest and why. He knew it wouldn’t win a Nobel Prize, but he had thought it up all by himself, and it had come out of a real question that really mattered to him, just as Ms. Gunderson had said it should. He could hear her voice right now, telling him, “Why, Ethan, what an original idea! I knew you’d come up with something wonderful!”

*   *   *

On Thursday morning, they didn’t have class time to work on their projects, but Ethan made himself go up to her after class. She was wearing a tight-fitting top, the kind that dancers wear, and the same skirt she had worn on the first day Ethan had ever seen her. Her hair was down, held back from her face by two glistening silver barrettes.

“I have kind of an idea for my science fair project,” he told her.

“What is it?” she asked, as if there were nothing in the world she wanted to know more.

And when he told her, sure enough, she said, “Ethan! It’s perfect for you. I knew your interest in sports would lead you to something wonderful.”

Even Peer-Assisted Learning couldn’t spoil Ethan’s happiness. He felt so good that for the first time he tried to pay attention to Lizzie’s long, breathless explanations of the day’s new batch of math problems.

During study hall that day, Ethan actually studied. He wasn’t going to be able to finish all 422 pages of A Tale of Two Cities in fourteen days unless he forced himself to read at least 30 pages—30 whole entire pages—every single day, including weekends. He was up to page 90 so far. If he had picked the 103-page book about a dog that Julius had found for him, he would be almost finished by now. Except that he wouldn’t have started it yet. He and Julius always put off reading their book-report books until the night before the book reports were due.

A Tale of Two Cities wasn’t the best book Ethan had ever read, but it wasn’t the worst, either. It took place during the French Revolution, in the 1700s. Once Ethan realized that Madame Guillotine was a special machine for cutting off heads, the story became considerably more interesting. They were a pretty bloodthirsty bunch, those French Revolutionaries.

Ethan could tell that his reading during study hall annoyed Julius. Sitting next to him, Julius fidgeted. He started another batch of doodles of Ms. Gunderson. The point on his pencil broke. He sighed heavily. Then he trudged off to sharpen his pencil.

When Julius returned to their table, he whispered to Ethan, “You’re really going to read the whole thing?”

Ethan nodded. He was going to read the whole thing, every single, solitary page. He didn’t know how to explain his determination to Julius.

“I have to.” He heard Ms. Leeds’s voice again in his head: “I have to say that it is very disturbing…” But he didn’t feel like letting Julius see how much the teacher’s comments had bothered him. Instead he said, “It’s my revenge against the Lizard. When she sees I’m reading a longer book than she did, she’ll die. She always reads the longest book of anyone in the class. This time she won’t.”

“It’s not worth it,” Julius said. “I wouldn’t read 422 pages to stop someone from blowing up the world.”

The librarian, Ms. Dworkin, called over to them. “Boys, this is supposed to be quiet, independent study time.” Across the room, Alex Ryan snorted. Alex loved it when anybody else got yelled at.

Ethan read for a few more minutes. When he looked up from his book, he saw Lizzie, at the next table, watching him. Would she be jealous when she saw he was reading a longer book than hers? No, Lizzie didn’t seem competitive in that way.

The bell rang. Ethan was stuffing A Tale of Two Cities into his backpack when he heard Lizzie’s voice beside him.

“You’re reading Dickens?”

Ethan nodded warily.

“I love Dickens. Have you read Great Expectations? Or Oliver Twist? Oliver Twist is my favorite. I’ve read it twice. I cried both times when Bill Sikes murdered Nancy, even though she loved him so much. I can’t believe someone else in our class is reading Dickens.”

To his dismay, Ethan found himself walking down the hall to English with Lizzie by his side, still talking, talking, talking.

“I didn’t know you were such a big reader, Ethan,” Lizzie said. “I guess because your book-report books are always so short. But length isn’t what matters in a book. I love a lot of short books, too. Or look at poetry. A poem can be any length. There are millions of wonderful poems that are just a few lines long. Like Emily Dickinson’s poems. She can say more in two lines than most people can say in a hundred pages. What part are you up to in A Tale of Two Cities?”

They had reached the English room.

“Page 97,” Ethan said. “I think the bell is going to ring.”

He took his seat. Had anyone besides Julius seen him walking with the Lizard? He made himself look at Julius. The pity that shone from his friend’s eyes was embarrassing, but in a way comforting, too.

“If I didn’t know better,” Julius said in a voice low enough that no one else could hear, “I’d say the Lizard likes you.”

“She likes me,” Ethan said dully.

“I guess it backfired,” Julius said. “Your revenge against Lizzie. But at least you can stop reading A Tale of Two Cities now.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say. “Yeah, well, but at this point, I might as well go ahead and finish it. I mean, I’ve already read 97 pages. It’d be a shame to waste them.”

Julius just shook his head. But Ethan hadn’t been reading A Tale of Two Cities to irritate Lizzie. Or even to prove something to Ms. Leeds. He had been reading it to be worthy of Grace Gunderson. Even if she never knew he had read it, he was reading it for her.

*   *   *

On Friday afternoon, classes were canceled during eighth period for a school-wide pep rally in the gym. Red Rocks Middle School was West Creek’s biggest rival in every sport, and both boys’ basketball teams were going into tonight’s game undefeated. It would be the game of the season.

As he walked to the pep rally with Julius, Ethan gathered data for another entry in Life Isn’t Fair: A Proof:

Friday, January 31. On the way to the pep rally, three different kids asked Ethan Winfield, “Are you really Peter Winfield’s brother?”

When the team came running out into the gym, the kids in the bleachers went wild. The cheerleaders led the crowd in a cheer for each player: “Pisani, Pisani, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, Winfield can! Winfield, Winfield, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, nobody can!”

Ethan’s throat was hoarse from yelling. He had cheered as loudly as he could for all the others, but he tried to cheer even more loudly when it was Peter’s turn. He felt ashamed of the disloyal thought he had had the other night at dinner. Peter had to play well tonight. The West Creek Bears had to win. And Ethan couldn’t wait to see it happen.

*   *   *

At the game, Ethan sat high in the bleachers again, this time with his mom and dad. Lots of his classmates were there: Julius was sitting with Alex and David; Marcia was in a group of the most popular sixth-grade girls. Ethan didn’t see the Lizard. Lizzie never went to any of the games.

Some of the teachers were there, too. Ethan searched every section of bleachers for Ms. Gunderson. He half wanted to find her and half hoped he wouldn’t. If she saw Peter leading the team to victory tonight, she would never again think Ethan was wonderful. But she wasn’t there. She was probably out with her friends from the university. Or with her boyfriend. There was no way someone as beautiful as she was wouldn’t have a boyfriend. Ethan tried not to think what he would be like. Tall, most likely. Definitely taller than four feet ten and a half inches.

When the team came running out of the locker room to start the game, Ethan jumped to his feet along with everyone else to yell a welcome. Both of his parents were yelling, too. Ethan got a kick out of watching his parents at Peter’s games. His dad, so quiet at home, had the loudest voice in the gym. At least it sounded that way to Ethan. No one had a more booming cheer when West Creek scored, or a more heartrending groan when they missed. Ethan’s mother, on the other hand, could hardly bear to watch the game. Whenever Peter had the ball, she would close her eyes and wait for the roar of the crowd to tell her she could open them. Ethan suspected that when he, Ethan, had played junior league soccer back in elementary school, she had kept her eyes closed most of the time.

The first half of the game was a close one, ending 28–24, with West Creek in the lead. Peter had scored 10 of West Creek’s points, making him the team’s highest scorer for the half. But in the second half, the West Creek Bears couldn’t seem to do anything right. Peter missed three shots in a row and got called for a foul against a Red Rocks player. With less than a minute left in the final quarter, the Bears were behind 42–38. West Creek would have to make two baskets in the next fifty seconds, or go down in defeat. And Ethan was painfully conscious that somewhere in the stands Coach McIntosh from the high school was watching both teams play, scouting to see which players would be the high school’s future stars.

All Ethan heard from his father was groans now. His mother hadn’t been watching the game since the final quarter began. Coach Stevens called a time-out. Would he replace Peter with another forward? Ethan didn’t think he could stand it if Peter had to sit out the rest of the game on the bench in disgrace. But Peter ran back in with his teammates, looking grim.

The coach’s talking-to must have helped. West Creek scored: 42–40. Before Red Rocks could recover, Peter stole the ball from one of their forwards and made a quick lay-up, tying the score. Everyone in the gym was standing now, screaming. There were only ten seconds left on the clock. Ethan glanced at the scoreboard. Red Rocks was out of time-outs.

The Red Rocks guard threw a wobbly pass in from under the basket. Nine seconds. Eight. The ball rolled free, and Peter dove for it, along with two Red Rocks players. Ethan couldn’t tell exactly what was happening in the next few seconds of pushing and grabbing.

The referee’s whistle blew. Was the foul Peter’s—his second foul of the evening? But the referee called it against Red Rocks.

“Right!” Ethan’s father shouted, punching his fist in the air.

Peter took his place at the free-throw line. He had two chances now to win the game for his team. The gym had become eerily quiet. How did Peter take the pressure of having to make his best shot with everyone watching him? Ethan loved basketball, but he didn’t think he could stand being a basketball star. He’d hate having hundreds and hundreds of people holding their breath, staring at him.

Ethan’s mother had hidden her face in his father’s shoulder. Ethan wanted to bury his own face in his father’s other shoulder, but he kept his eyes on Peter.

Was it wrong to pray for someone to make a basket? Ethan couldn’t help himself. Dear God, let Peter make it. Let Peter make it.

The ball soared through the air, teetered on the rim, and fell away. No score. A collective moan of disappointment came from the crowd.

Peter bounced the ball twice on the free-throw line. Then, carefully, he took aim. Ethan stopped breathing. The ball swished cleanly through the hoop. 43–42.

No one watched the last two seconds of the game. The crowd drowned out the buzzer announcing that the game was over and West Creek had won. Ethan’s father had tears in his eyes. His mother was blowing her nose.

Ethan’s chest was bursting with relief and pride in Peter, together with a secret pain. The wild and joyous cheers resounding through the gym were for his brother; they would always be for his brother. They would never be for him.