I’m so pumped for the Gladiators preseason team meeting tonight. I jump off the school bus and run home, leaving Bryan in the dust.
“Wait up!” he calls.
I turn and jog backward. “Can’t! Got to get ready.” I put up my hands T. rex style and growl at Bryan. He runs to catch up to me.
Bryan’s not a bad athlete. He used to play soccer. But when the league made kids try out and placed them on A, B, and “We Don’t Care” teams, Bryan was done. He says sports should be for fun, not for glory.
“Do you think we’ll get to write horror stories for Mr. Van’s new project?” Bryan asks. “I’m going to write about a haunted restaurant where all the food comes to life.”
“Can’t you stop thinking about food for a second?” I turn around to walk with Bryan, fixing my backpack so my books sit high on my shoulders. Coach Billy says if we have to carry heavy backpacks, we might as well build up our neck muscles.
“The guy has more books on his desk than our whole media center,” Bryan says. “Okay. I exaggerate, but if Mr. Van weren’t a giant badger man, he’d get crushed by a book avalanche. I can picture it. He’s staying late at school, grading essays. There’s no one else in the building. Suddenly, a breeze wafts across his stack of books.”
“Wafts?”
“Don’t interrupt the flow of my literary genius,” Bryan says. “The books teeter. Mr. Vanderhoff is wrapped up reading the brilliant writing of one Bryan Hong. He does not notice disaster is about to strike. Then, ka-BOOM!” Bryan pauses.
“It hits him like a tsunami?”
“Exactly. Mr. Van is knocked unconscious. They don’t find him until morning.”
We stop at the bottom of my driveway. “I thought you liked Mr. Van.”
“No one is safe from the word stylings of Bryan Hong.”
“Oooh, I’m scared.” I pretend to shake. “See ya!”
“Yeah,” Bryan says. “See you in a few months.”
“It’s not that bad, Bry. We eat lunch together every day.”
Bryan shrugs.
“No practice on Tuesdays or Thursdays. We’ll ride bikes.”
“It’s a deal. Unless it snows. Then, video games at my house.”
“Mom!” I call the second I’m in the door. “Is my Gladiators hoodie clean? I want to wear it to the meeting.”
Grover waddles into the hall, snuffling my backpack. He sounds more like a pig than a dog. I pat his soft ears.
“You’re old enough to do your own laundry,” Mom calls from the top of the stairs.
Mom thinks being a middle schooler means I should be more independent. When I started sixth grade, she started her master’s degree. She says she wants to be a school guidance counselor when she grows up. I hope she sticks to little kids. My mom is way too nice for middle school.
Mom comes down the stairs. She’s dressed for class, corduroys and turtleneck sweater. Her hair is pulled into a bun. She’s even wearing makeup. Mom says she wants the professors to know she’s a serious student. In one motion, she ruffles my hair, picks up my backpack from the floor, and hangs it up on its hook.
“What’s in here? Rocks?”
I stand in front of Mom to make sure she can’t run off to do laundry or hunt for the psych textbook she’s always losing. “Will you help me with my homework plan?” I ask. “I want to get it all done before we leave.”
Mom’s starting to pull folders out of my backpack when I hear a chair move in the kitchen.
“Dalia’s home?”
This is the only time of day when I have Mom to myself, before everyone gets busy with sports. I know I’ve lost her attention as soon as my sister strides into the hall. Dalia is supposed to be at field hockey. She’s a junior in high school, which means every second of her day is scheduled with homework, SAT prep, and sports. Mom treats Dalia like she’s a VIP guest in our house. Abba says Mom’s acting this way because my sister’s going to college soon. I can hardly wait to be an only child.
Dalia wears her hair in a long, tight braid. It swings back and forth like the pendulum in that horror story Mr. Van read to us.
“Forgot my cleats,” she says.
Mom starts tearing through her purse, looking for car keys.
“I don’t need a ride, Mom,” Dalia says. “Evan’s driving me.”
“Evan’s coming over?” I run to the window. Evan is Dalia’s boyfriend, and he’s the best. He loves video games and plays touch football with me in the yard, and he’s a wrestler. He even won state champ in eighth grade.
“Forget it, Lev,” Dalia says. “Evan’s taking me to practice. That’s it.” She shoves hockey sticks into her tall, narrow bag. A horn beeps. Dalia runs outside in her socks, cleats swinging from her hands, braid swinging on her head.
“Wait!” I follow her outside.
Evan rolls down the window of his silver truck. “Hey, buddy.” He gives me a fist bump. Evan has curly red hair and a cleft in his stubbly chin. He has a wrestler’s wide shoulders and neck, and the tops of his ears are lumpy in places. I’ll never have beat-up wrestlers’ ears. Mom and Abba make me wear headgear, even at practice.
“You training yet?” Evan asks.
I’m about to tell him the team meeting is tonight, but Dalia interrupts. “No wrestling talk,” she says. “Sometimes I think you only go out with me so you can hang out with my baby brother.”
I’m not a baby, I’m about to complain, but Evan points a thumb at my sister and shrugs at me. I know what he means: Sorry, buddy. She’s the boss. His eyes crinkle like he’s holding in a laugh. Evan is the exact opposite of Dalia, funny and easy to get along with. Everyone in my family likes him.
As I watch the truck pull away, I smile. I’m going to work my butt off this season. By the time I finish middle school, I’ll be a state champ just like Evan.