ever been outside?
“Doesn’t matter. He’ll learn,” Mr. Stein said.
“But where do you play?” Mrs. Stein asked. “You know, he’s allergic to grass.”
I told her Joseph would be safe from nature, playing in P.S. 173’s concrete yard, a yard he went into every day. Mrs. Stein was able to point out that if our team was successful and went on to compete against other schools, that Joseph would be dragged to strange locations, probably places with lots of grass.
All of the city games would be played on concrete yards in Manhattan, I assured her.
But what about this state championship and the national championship? she pointed out, shaking her head sorrowfully. “They have grass in Albany and Washington. And Joey can’t be going all over the country. He’ll get asthma.”
Joseph had left his glasses beside his half-finished plate of sponge cake. With them off, his eyes had an unfocused look. They trailed over the ceiling, as if he were searching for a way out.
Mr. Stein also nodded sorrowfully, in harmony with his wife. “That’s true. And I can’t get time off to travel with him.”
“I can’t go,” Mimi Stein said. “You know I can’t travel.”
“Of course not!” her husband squeaked, outraged. He smiled at me and pressed the table once with his index finger, as if making a selection on a vending machine. “Well, I’m sorry,” is what slid out of him. “Best of luck. I’m sure you’ll win.”
“I lied,” I called out, tossing the truth onto the table. I wanted it back when I saw how they reacted. The mouse face lost its humorous grin; Mr. Stein’s small mouth pursed as he tasted the bitter flavor of my betrayal. Mrs. Stein leaned back, retracted her chin, and studied me as if I had just entered the room. I rushed on, hoping to soften their reaction. “There aren’t any other tournaments. There’s just a borough champion. We’ll never leave Manhattan. We probably won’t even win the class tournament. Everybody thinks 4-6 will cream us.”
“Joseph,” Mrs. Stein said in a deep tone, almost a man’s register. “Go to your room.”
“No,” he moaned. Not so much as a protest, but as a pained recognition of the approach of disaster.
“You know you get too upset,” she added. “We have to have this out with Rafael.” She pronounced it the way I disliked—RAY-FEE-EL.
I was terrified. He gets too upset about what? Have what out? What were they going to do to me? Run, I urged myself. But I was paralyzed.
“This is very serious,” Mr. Stein said, also having lowered his voice at least one scale.
Mrs. Stein stood up and touched Joseph’s arm. “Go to your room.”
Joseph pushed his chair back abruptly, its feet squealing on the linoleum. To my ears the sound was a shriek. Don’t leave me alone with them, I pleaded. But no words came out. (I’m not sure I ever truly forgave Joseph for leaving, silly as that sounds.) He grabbed his glasses and rushed out.
Run! I begged myself. But I couldn’t move.
“Liars can’t be trusted,” Mr. Stein said. He opened his hands to me, as if he were helpless. “Isn’t that so? How can you trust a person who lies?”
“Leave him alone,” Joseph wailed from the distance of his room. It was a ghostly cry. I felt doomed by the futile tone of his plea.
“I didn’t mean anything!” My throat closed on the words, sounding shame and fear, not protest. “I just wanted you to allow Joseph—”
“You didn’t mean anything?” Mr. Stein said in an utterly cold tone. His small eyes, the once bright twinkling eyes of a cartoon mouse, were unreflective now. They had the black color of disdain. “I wonder what you did mean? What else are you lying about? What did you really plan to be doing when these games were supposedly played?”
“Nothing! I only lied about the championships!”
Mr. Stein frowned with disgust. He waved a hand at me. “When are these games supposed to happen?” he asked as if this were my last
“Doesn’t matter. He’ll learn,” Mr. Stein said.
“But where do you play?” Mrs. Stein asked. “You know, he’s allergic to grass.”
I told her Joseph would be safe from nature, playing in P.S. 173’s concrete yard, a yard he went into every day. Mrs. Stein was able to point out that if our team was successful and went on to compete against other schools, that Joseph would be dragged to strange locations, probably places with lots of grass.
All of the city games would be played on concrete yards in Manhattan, I assured her.
But what about this state championship and the national championship? she pointed out, shaking her head sorrowfully. “They have grass in Albany and Washington. And Joey can’t be going all over the country. He’ll get asthma.”
Joseph had left his glasses beside his half-finished plate of sponge cake. With them off, his eyes had an unfocused look. They trailed over the ceiling, as if he were searching for a way out.
Mr. Stein also nodded sorrowfully, in harmony with his wife. “That’s true. And I can’t get time off to travel with him.”
“I can’t go,” Mimi Stein said. “You know I can’t travel.”
“Of course not!” her husband squeaked, outraged. He smiled at me and pressed the table once with his index finger, as if making a selection on a vending machine. “Well, I’m sorry,” is what slid out of him. “Best of luck. I’m sure you’ll win.”
“I lied,” I called out, tossing the truth onto the table. I wanted it back when I saw how they reacted. The mouse face lost its humorous grin; Mr. Stein’s small mouth pursed as he tasted the bitter flavor of my betrayal. Mrs. Stein leaned back, retracted her chin, and studied me as if I had just entered the room. I rushed on, hoping to soften their reaction. “There aren’t any other tournaments. There’s just a borough champion. We’ll never leave Manhattan. We probably won’t even win the class tournament. Everybody thinks 4-6 will cream us.”
“Joseph,” Mrs. Stein said in a deep tone, almost a man’s register. “Go to your room.”
“No,” he moaned. Not so much as a protest, but as a pained recognition of the approach of disaster.
“You know you get too upset,” she added. “We have to have this out with Rafael.” She pronounced it the way I disliked—RAY-FEE-EL.
I was terrified. He gets too upset about what? Have what out? What were they going to do to me? Run, I urged myself. But I was paralyzed.
“This is very serious,” Mr. Stein said, also having lowered his voice at least one scale.
Mrs. Stein stood up and touched Joseph’s arm. “Go to your room.”
Joseph pushed his chair back abruptly, its feet squealing on the linoleum. To my ears the sound was a shriek. Don’t leave me alone with them, I pleaded. But no words came out. (I’m not sure I ever truly forgave Joseph for leaving, silly as that sounds.) He grabbed his glasses and rushed out.
Run! I begged myself. But I couldn’t move.
“Liars can’t be trusted,” Mr. Stein said. He opened his hands to me, as if he were helpless. “Isn’t that so? How can you trust a person who lies?”
“Leave him alone,” Joseph wailed from the distance of his room. It was a ghostly cry. I felt doomed by the futile tone of his plea.
“I didn’t mean anything!” My throat closed on the words, sounding shame and fear, not protest. “I just wanted you to allow Joseph—”
“You didn’t mean anything?” Mr. Stein said in an utterly cold tone. His small eyes, the once bright twinkling eyes of a cartoon mouse, were unreflective now. They had the black color of disdain. “I wonder what you did mean? What else are you lying about? What did you really plan to be doing when these games were supposedly played?”
“Nothing! I only lied about the championships!”
Mr. Stein frowned with disgust. He waved a hand at me. “When are these games supposed to happen?” he asked as if this were my last
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