A High Five for Glenn Burke Page 6

  “It’s not,” Ms. Washington says. “The origin story I just shared with you is pure fiction, a hoax.”

  “A hoax?” Kaitlyn says. “Why would someone do that?”

  “That’s a great question.” Ms. Washington smiles again. “Why would someone do that?”

  Ms. Washington looks back at me. She wants me to answer. She knows I know. But I can’t answer and won’t, because if I do, everyone …

  “Perhaps for attention, perhaps as a joke,” Ms. Washington says. She holds out her hands. “Perhaps because they knew they could get away with it.”

  “So they lied,” Kaitlyn says. “They stole someone’s truth.”

  “It appears they did,” Ms. Washington says. “They stole someone’s truth.”

  “How can they get away with that?” Connor asks.

  “I have my theories,” Ms. Washington answers.

  Zoey rubs my arm, and when she does, it only makes me more anxious because I know everything I’m feeling right now—fearing right now—is for good reason. A droplet of sweat falls from my chin and lands on my wrist.

  “Sadly, lies will often drown out the truth,” Ms. Washington says. “Glenn Burke doesn’t get the credit he deserves because a lie drowned out the truth, his truth.”

  “How could that happen?” Connor asks.

  “We live in a time where the difference between fact and fiction, the difference between truth and untruth, is more difficult to discern than ever. Far too many are far too quick to believe anything and everything they hear.” Ms. Washington clasps her hands in her lap again. “We can no longer allow that to happen. Because it’s dangerous, harmful, and unfair. It’s up to you—it’s up to us—to seek out the truth, to spread the truth, and to fight for the truth.”

  I’m staring at the splash of sweat on my wrist. I refuse to look up because I know Ms. Washington’s looking at me, and the last thing I want to do right now is to make eye contact with her.

  “Our truths matter,” Ms. Washington says. “Just ask Glenn Burke.”

  12

  WAITING FOR GRACE

  “I don’t know what I would’ve done if she’d said something,” I say.

  “Well, you don’t have to,” Zoey says. “She didn’t.”

  We’re sitting on the low brick wall by the bushes next to the faculty parking lot, which is where we wait for Grace to pick us up every Monday after school. Zoey’s swinging her legs like Haley does when we’re at the movies and the previews are about to start.

  “I’m still shaking.” I hold out my hands like I did the other day in her living room. “I really don’t know what—”

  “You don’t have to,” she says again. She squeezes my fingers. “Relax.”

  I look out into the lot. I didn’t like it when she told me to relax on the phone the other day, and I don’t like her telling me now, but I don’t say anything. It’s the first time we’ve been alone since her house, and if I say something, it’ll only add to the weirdness I’m not imagining.

  “What was Ms. Washington trying to prove?” I ask.

  “She wasn’t trying to prove anything.”

  “Why would she do that to me?”

  “Silas, she didn’t do anything,” Zoey says. “You know how Ms. Washington gets.”

  I do know how she gets. She’s one of those teachers who wants you to think and doesn’t always give clear-cut answers. She likes to throw out thoughts and ideas and let you try to figure things out on your own. But I have no idea what she was getting at today.

  “What if she brings it up tomorrow?” I say.

  “She’s talking about someone else tomorrow.” Zoey stops swinging her legs and checks the time on her phone. “Grace needs to get here already.”

  “If she’d brought up that Glenn Burke was gay…”

  I stop and look back at the school to make sure no one’s around, to make sure no one’s within a soccer field of our conversation, a conversation I can’t believe we’re having at school.

  “What if … what if someone from class decides to look up Glenn Burke?” I say.

  “Grrrr,” Zoey says. “Silas, are we seriously back to that? No one’s going to find out he was gay.”

  I look back at the school again. “This conversation stops as soon as we see Grace’s car.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious. We change the subject as soon as we see Grace pull into—”

  “Let’s change the subject now.” She taps my shoulder. “I can’t believe my tournament’s a week from Saturday. The team has so much we need to do between now and then.”

  “You’ll do it,” I say.

  “We’re naming our robot today.”

  “Cool.” I pick up a twig from the dirt under the bush behind me and trace the cracks in the bricks.

  “I have the best name ever for it.”

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t say. Not until I convince the eighth graders that’s what we’re naming it.” She hops off the wall and faces me. “You should tell Grace.”

  “What?”

  “I think you should tell Grace.”

  “I thought we were changing the subject.”

  “Grace would—”

  “No, Zoey.”

  She moves in front of me and puts her hands on my knees. “You know she’d be cool.”

  “Zoey, no. I’m not telling anyone else.”

  “You know she would be.”

  “I don’t care,” I say.

  She presses my knees. “I think she knows.”

  “What?” I drop the twig. “How does she know? What did you—?”

  “She asked me one time.”

  “Asked you?” I feel my heart beating against my chest. “What did you say?”

  “I told her no, I didn’t think so.”

  “You didn’t think so?” I push away her hands.

  “Silas, I never really thought about it until last week.”

  “I can’t believe you never told me this.”

  “Seriously? What would you have said if I’d told you Grace asked me if you were gay?”

  I glance back at the school again. “When was this?”

  “Like last year, maybe. I don’t know.” She puts her hands back on my knees. “Relax, Silas.”

  I stare but don’t say anything.

  “Silas, I think … I think you might be overreacting. I know I said I didn’t think—”

  “I’m not overreacting, Zoey,” I say. Then I shake my head and then half smile.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You sound exactly like some of the kids in the coming-out videos,” I say. “Some of them talk about how you should find an older person you can trust. They say it in some of those Dear Teen Me letters, too. They say it gives you strength and confidence.”

  “Zoey Pichardo knows what she’s talking about!” She pats her chest and double-dimple grins. “So will you—”

  “What the…?” I slide off the wall and motion to the gray SUV turning into the lot. “Why’s my dad here?”

  He’s smiling and waving as he pulls into the empty spot reserved for the school nurse. Semaj is waving, too, from her car seat in the back.

  “Hi, Swade,” he says, lowering the window.

  I hold out my hands. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hi, Zoey.” He waves.

  She waves back. “Hey, Mr. Dubs.”

  Zoey calls my parents Mr. and Mrs. Dubs. Dubs is her abbreviation for W.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask again.

  He opens the door and gets out. “One of your mother’s employees cut herself.”

  “The new girl?” I say. “Kaila?”

  “As a matter of fact, that was the name your mother said.”

  “Is she okay?” Zoey asks, skipping to the back door.

  “They went to urgent care,” Dad says.

  “Then she’s not okay,” I say.

  “Your mother’s erring on the side of caution. You know how she
gets.”

  “But why are you here?”

  “What do you mean, why am I here?” He walks around the front of the car. “Your mother said I needed to pick you up.”

  “No.” I make a face. “Grace picks us up on Mondays.”

  “Beep.” Zoey taps Semaj’s head. She’s next to Semaj in the back seat. “Beep, beep.”

  Semaj giggles. “Beep, beep.” She pats one of Zoey’s dimples. “Beep, beep.”

  “Gentle,” Zoey says. “Gentle.”

  “Zo, Zo.” Semaj laughs. “Beep, beep.”

  “I’m pretty sure your mother said I needed to pick you up at three thirty,” Dad says.

  “No. Grace is picking us up. Maybe she said something about picking us up next Monday because Grace has rehearsals next Monday.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure … Oh, who knows anymore? I give up.” Dad faces the parking lot and rubs his bald spot. “Well, since I’m here already,” he says, turning back, “there’s no need for Grace to come get you. Text her that I’ll—”

  “Can’t,” Zoey interrupts. “She’s already on her way. I don’t text Grace when I know she’s driving.”

  “Good on you,” Dad says. “Good on you.” He steps to me. “Your mother was going a mile a minute when she called. Go here, do this, get that. Maybe she did say next week. I have no idea.” He’s still rubbing his bald spot. “All I know is I’m here, and apparently, I’m not supposed to be.”

  “Your boss let you out of work?” I ask.

  “I told him it was a medical emergency,” Dad says. “If he wants to be a jerk about that, let him.” He checks his phone. “Let’s see. If I understand my orders correctly, I need to pick up Haley and then drop her and Semaj at the Jump & Grind and then … You’re sure Grace is taking you home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it does save me a few minutes. Let me get moving.” He holds out his fist. “I’ll see you at home, Swade.”

  I give him a light dap. “Later, Dad.”

  “Later, Mr. Dubs,” Zoey says, sliding out of the back seat. “Bye, Semaj.”

  “Bye, bye.” Semaj waves with both hands. “Bye, bye.”

  Dad checks Semaj’s car seat through the window, gets back in the car, and drives off.

  Grace turns into the lot as he pulls out.

  “Perfect timing,” Zoey says.

  “That’s for sure,” I say.

  Grace parks her Kia along the curb.

  “Did you say anything?” Grace says, hopping out and pointing at Zoey. “If you said anything, I’ll be so—”

  “I didn’t say a word.” Zoey holds up her hands. “I swear.”

  “Say anything about what?” I ask.

  “Did she say anything to you?” Grace asks me as she walks around to the trunk.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.

  “I didn’t say a word,” Zoey says, double-dimpling. “No hints, no nothing.” She jumps up and down. “Open it, open it!”

  “Right on.” Grace drumrolls the trunk.

  “What’s happening?” I ask. “What is this?”

  “Here goes,” Grace says.

  She pops open the trunk and takes out a blue rolling suitcase, the kind that fits into the overhead compartment on a plane. Then she takes out a black one and lays them both on the sidewalk.

  “All yours,” she says.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “Open them,” she says.

  I unzip the black suitcase, and the second I open it, I know exactly what I’m looking at.

  “No way!” I unzip the blue suitcase. “No way!”

  “You like?” Grace says, smiling.

  “Like?” I say. “Like? This is nuts!”

  13

  THE SANDLOT FASHION SHOW

  I’m behind the bleachers in back of the third-base dugout with the blue and black suitcases open on the ground. Theo and Kareem have been spitting sunflower seeds down at me the whole time I’ve been back here, but it hasn’t bothered me at all, because the only thing I care about right now is what I’m about to do. And what I’m about to do is going to be absolutely hilarious.

  I knew what was in the suitcases the second I saw the KC Monarchs cap, the exact one Kenny DeNunez wears, and the white button-down baseball jersey with the green trim, the exact one Yeah-Yeah wears. The suitcases contained the clothing the kids wore in The Sandlot.

  “You almost ready back there?” Webb calls out.

  “Just about,” I say.

  All the Renegades are up on the bleachers getting ready for the start of practice. When I got to Field of Dreams a few minutes ago, I went right to Webb and told him what I wanted to do, and just like I knew he would be, he was down with it, so long as I didn’t cut into practice time.

  I knew I was going to do what I’m about to do the second I opened the suitcases yesterday.

  “How’d you get all these?” I’d asked Grace.

  “Perks of my job,” she answered.

  “This is nuts!” I said at least ten times while jumping in circles and double-high-fiving Zoey and Grace. “This is nuts!”

  “These aren’t for keeps, Silas,” Grace said. “You do know that?”

  “Oh, I know,” I said, putting on the thick glasses, the ones Squints wears.

  “You have to take real good care of them.”

  “I’ll treat them like the treasures they are.”

  “Rad,” Grace said. “I probably won’t be able to get these back from you until after opening night because rehearsals are taking over my life this week and next.”

  “I can’t wait for practice tomorrow.”

  It’s practice tomorrow, and I peep my outfit in my phone—an orange-and-yellow striped shirt, baggy khaki shorts, white sneakers, a catcher’s mask on top of my head, and a wooden bat resting on my shoulder.

  “Let’s do this, Silas,” I say.

  I charge around the bleachers and bolt to the top row.

  “My fellow Renegades,” I say, holding the bat up high and shaking my hips like I’m doing the floss, which I did everywhere I went when I was in elementary school. “I present to you the Sandlot fashion show.”

  Luis, Ben-Ben, and Malik start banging the bleachers. Luis and Ben-Ben love The Sandlot almost as much as I do, which is why I’d told them they were going to love what I was about to do, even though I wouldn’t say what it was.

  “You’re so weird, Silas!” Theo says, laughing and shaking his head.

  “I know, right?” Kareem laughs, too. “So weird.”

  “All righty,” I say. I walk the top row like a model strutting down a runway. “Which one of you can tell me which character from The Sandlot I’m—”

  “Ham!” Luis shouts.

  “You are correct, sir!” I point the bat. “I’m the one and only Hamilton ‘Ham’ Porter.”

  “You’re killing me, Smalls!” Ben-Ben says Ham’s line from the movie and shakes his hands at me. “You’re killing me, Smalls!”

  All the Renegades are smiling and laughing just like I knew they would be.

  “Go, Silas!” Malik says.

  I smile at him. “Be right back,” I say.

  I shield my face from Theo’s and Kareem’s sunflower seeds as I dart down the bleachers and back around to the suitcases. I quickly change into my next outfit, which is already laid out on the grass, and a minute later, I’m on the top row again, dressed in a different striped shirt, jeans with big cuffs, a plain black cap on backward, and those thick glasses.

  “Squints!” Webb calls out. He laughs. “Michael Palledorous, a.k.a. Squints!”

  “You’re killing me, Webb.” I shake my hands at him. “I didn’t even get to ask who I was!”

  Webb shakes his hands back at me and then jogs out onto the field.

  Ben-Ben stands up and holds out his index fingers and thumbs. “The kid is an L-7 weenie,” he says, which is my fave Squints line.

  Everyone’s laughing even harder than I thought they’d be.<
br />
  “This is so gay, Silas,” Theo says, smacking his sides.

  “Yeah, you’re so gay,” Kareem says.

  I flinch.

  I don’t think anyone noticed, because I’m still smiling, and I have to keep smiling because if I don’t keep smiling, everyone will notice and then someone will wonder why and no one can wonder why.

  “Be right … be right back,” I say, smiling like nothing happened.

  I charge down the bleachers, and when I get to the suitcases, I put my hands on my hips and bend over. I’m trying to catch my breath, but I can’t catch my breath. That word never sounded like that before. I hear it all the time like that—at school, out shopping, online, at baseball—but this time it sounded different. It sounded scary.

  I change into the next costume, and the whole time I’m changing, I’m tingling and telling myself nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened, even though something most definitely happened.

  A few seconds later, I’m walking the top row again, and this time, I’m wearing a white baseball jersey with blue sleeves, jeans with even bigger cuffs, a pair of PF Flyers, and a Dodgers cap.

  “Even I know this one,” Malik says, waving his arms like he’s dancing. “Benny!”

  “Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez!” Ben-Ben says. “Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez!”

  “Benny ‘the Jet’ Rodriguez,” I say, tipping my cap. “That’s what they called him when he played for the Los Angeles Dodgers.”

  I smile at Malik again, but this time, the smile feels … I don’t know how to describe it.

  14

  SO GAY

  A few months after Glenn Burke started in center field in the opening game of the World Series, the Los Angeles Dodgers traded their five-tool talent to the Oakland Athletics, the worst team in baseball. Tommy Lasorda, the manager of the Dodgers, who a lot of people think is one of their greatest managers of all time, and Al Campanis, the vice president of the Dodgers, didn’t want someone like Glenn Burke in their organization. And when Billy Martin—one of the most popular figures in the game—became manager of the A’s, he made it clear there would never be someone like Glenn Burke on his team.

  This is so gay, Silas.