fifth, back before Mead started skipping grades, before the label of “genius” got slapped on his forehead. Next year Percy will be across town in the high school, but for now they are once again roaming the same halls.
Percy places his hand on Mead’s head and messes up his hair. “Hey, lazybones, get up off your sorry ass and join me on the ballfield. I’ll pitch you a few easy ones.”
“I’d love to,” Mead says, “but I haven’t lifted anything heavier than a pencil in five years and if I strain my wrist I won’t be able to write and then I’ll flunk all my tests and my mother will kill me and it’ll all be your fault.”
“Blah, blah, blah. Listen, you might be able to fool other people with your genius brand of double talk but I’m not other people, I’m your cousin. No one’s gonna laugh at you. I promise. At least give it a try.”
“Maybe tomorrow; there’s something else I need to do today.” And Mead holds up his spiral notebook and a twelve-inch ruler as proof.
“Come on. One lousy pitch, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Tomorrow,” Mead says and again holds up his notebook and ruler.
“You always say that.”
“I know, but today it’s true.”
“Okay, cousin, have it your way,” Percy says and trots down the steps and across the asphalt playground toward the ballfield. When the other kids see him coming, they part like the Red Sea to let him pass and someone tosses Mead’s cousin a baseball. As Percy warms up his pitching arm, the boys fight over the batting order.
They couldn’t be more different, Mead and his cousin. Like night and day. Brains versus brawn. Intellectual geek versus sports hero. But it won’t always be like this. Or at least this is what Mead tells himself, that his cousin’s stature as most popular kid will be short-lived, his moment in the spotlight extinguishing with the end of grade school, his days of glory forever moored in the past. Mead tells himself that his own best days still lie ahead, that his god-given skill set will grow in popularity when he sheds the skin of childhood and emerges anew as a grownup, that one day he will be as beseeched by his peers as Percy is today. Only Mead’s popularity will stay with him all the way through the end of his life. He just has to be patient, to hold out for a few more years. Mead cannot wait to get out of grade school, go off to college, and start his life for real. It can’t happen soon enough. But it can happen sooner than usual if he continues to excel at school, if he continues to skip grades. Mead doesn’t have time to waste on sports. He has more important things to do, like working on his science report. And so he gobbles down the rest of his sandwich, slurps up the last of his chocolate milk, and heads out across the schoolyard with his notebook and ruler tucked under his arm.
Percy is standing center stage in a circle of mud that is High Grove Junior High’s best imitation of a pitcher’s mound. His sleeves are rolled up and a Cardinals baseball cap is pulled down low over his eyes as he coils his long, lanky body into a tight spring and then tosses off his signature pitch: a curveball that sails over home plate so fast that the kid at bat cannot send it back. Someone yells, “Strike!” and the defeated hitter hands the bat off to the next kid in line, who makes several warm-up swings before stepping to the plate, before Percy sends another ball speeding through the air so fast that Mead cannot keep his eyes on it. The baseball smacks into the catcher’s mitt with enough force to knock the poor guy on his ass. Several kids clap their hands and chant, “Feg-lee! Feg-lee! Feg-lee!” as the next victim steps up to the plate.
One kid in the crowd sees Mead, nudges his buddy, and calls out, “Hey, do you still wet your bed, Ted?” The buddy laughs and Mead takes his cue to exit, ducks his head, and starts walking away. Then the buddy says, “You gotta be really smart to make an A+
Percy places his hand on Mead’s head and messes up his hair. “Hey, lazybones, get up off your sorry ass and join me on the ballfield. I’ll pitch you a few easy ones.”
“I’d love to,” Mead says, “but I haven’t lifted anything heavier than a pencil in five years and if I strain my wrist I won’t be able to write and then I’ll flunk all my tests and my mother will kill me and it’ll all be your fault.”
“Blah, blah, blah. Listen, you might be able to fool other people with your genius brand of double talk but I’m not other people, I’m your cousin. No one’s gonna laugh at you. I promise. At least give it a try.”
“Maybe tomorrow; there’s something else I need to do today.” And Mead holds up his spiral notebook and a twelve-inch ruler as proof.
“Come on. One lousy pitch, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Tomorrow,” Mead says and again holds up his notebook and ruler.
“You always say that.”
“I know, but today it’s true.”
“Okay, cousin, have it your way,” Percy says and trots down the steps and across the asphalt playground toward the ballfield. When the other kids see him coming, they part like the Red Sea to let him pass and someone tosses Mead’s cousin a baseball. As Percy warms up his pitching arm, the boys fight over the batting order.
They couldn’t be more different, Mead and his cousin. Like night and day. Brains versus brawn. Intellectual geek versus sports hero. But it won’t always be like this. Or at least this is what Mead tells himself, that his cousin’s stature as most popular kid will be short-lived, his moment in the spotlight extinguishing with the end of grade school, his days of glory forever moored in the past. Mead tells himself that his own best days still lie ahead, that his god-given skill set will grow in popularity when he sheds the skin of childhood and emerges anew as a grownup, that one day he will be as beseeched by his peers as Percy is today. Only Mead’s popularity will stay with him all the way through the end of his life. He just has to be patient, to hold out for a few more years. Mead cannot wait to get out of grade school, go off to college, and start his life for real. It can’t happen soon enough. But it can happen sooner than usual if he continues to excel at school, if he continues to skip grades. Mead doesn’t have time to waste on sports. He has more important things to do, like working on his science report. And so he gobbles down the rest of his sandwich, slurps up the last of his chocolate milk, and heads out across the schoolyard with his notebook and ruler tucked under his arm.
Percy is standing center stage in a circle of mud that is High Grove Junior High’s best imitation of a pitcher’s mound. His sleeves are rolled up and a Cardinals baseball cap is pulled down low over his eyes as he coils his long, lanky body into a tight spring and then tosses off his signature pitch: a curveball that sails over home plate so fast that the kid at bat cannot send it back. Someone yells, “Strike!” and the defeated hitter hands the bat off to the next kid in line, who makes several warm-up swings before stepping to the plate, before Percy sends another ball speeding through the air so fast that Mead cannot keep his eyes on it. The baseball smacks into the catcher’s mitt with enough force to knock the poor guy on his ass. Several kids clap their hands and chant, “Feg-lee! Feg-lee! Feg-lee!” as the next victim steps up to the plate.
One kid in the crowd sees Mead, nudges his buddy, and calls out, “Hey, do you still wet your bed, Ted?” The buddy laughs and Mead takes his cue to exit, ducks his head, and starts walking away. Then the buddy says, “You gotta be really smart to make an A+
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