Born to Fly (6 page)

Red clapped his hands. “Come on, Nip. Chop-chop.”

Kenji rose slowly from the bench and walked over to Red. “For your information, Charlie Chan is Chinese. My name is Kenji.”

“That’s not my fault. Now listen. Know what this is?” Red held a tattered hardball under Kenji’s nose. Kenji said nothing. “Didn’t think so. It’s a baseball, see? Now the point of the game is for that guy”—Red pointed to Farley—“to hit you with it. Just ask Lumpy.”

Lumpy looked up from the bench and nodded. He was a chunky kid with baseball welts on his face and arms. His specialty was getting beaned. Lumpy had drawn a walk every at-bat for the last two years. When he smiled, Kenji saw that he was minus quite a few teeth.

“After you, Tiny’s up next,” said Red.

Kenji spotted Tiny, a miniature Babe Ruth, fanning a Louisville Slugger in the on-deck circle.

“He’ll knock you in,” Red explained, “and we win. See? It’s so simple, even you can understand it.”

Kenji turned and marched to the plate. He picked up the bat and held it at an odd angle.

Farley wound up and called out, so everyone could hear, “This is for Pearl Harbor, guys,” and whistled one right past Kenji’s head, flattening him to the dirt. Kenji accidentally swung his bat in the process. Strike one.

“Like a turkey shoot,” gloated Farley.

“Except this time it’s a chicken,” Raymond chimed in.

Figuring out Red’s strategy, the catcher, Sean, said, “Stop fooling around, Farley. If he gets on, Tiny’s up next.”

Sean was right. Tiny hit at least a double every time he came up to bat. If Farley beaned Kenji and put him on base, odds were pretty good that Tiny would get a hit and win the game. Farley needed to get Kenji out to seal the victory.

Kenji climbed back to his feet. Dusted himself off. From the bench, Red and his teammates signaled Kenji to lean into the pitch. He just ignored them. Farley launched
another pitch, straight for his head. Kenji sidestepped and swung again—strike two.

Sean returned the pitch. “Atta boy, Farley. One more.”

By this time, most of the other kids in gym class were finished with their games and heading back toward the schoolhouse. A small crowd began to gather to watch Farley strike out the new Japanese kid.

Red marched angrily up to Kenji. “What’s a matter? No speaka da English? You got to let it hit you if you want a walk.”

Kenji shoved him aside. He dug his feet into the batter’s box. Set his jaw. Tightened his steely focus on the ball. Then … complete silence as Kenji pointed his arm out to center field, just like Babe Ruth calling his shot.

Who did this kid think he was? He cocked the bat like it was some kind of medieval catapult. That was when the other kids in the crowd started to laugh.

But for some reason, I didn’t.

Farley snickered. He pounded his fist into his mitt.

“Lights out, Hirohito.” Farley wound up like a spring. And hurled one last blistering curveball with everything he had.

Crack!

It sounded like a thunderclap. But there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Only a white ball shooting like a rocket up to outer space.

GOODBYE, MR. SPAULDING! Kenji had creamed it harder than Farley or any kid I had ever seen—even
seventh graders. That ball sailed like it had wings, over the helpless outfielders, landing at least twenty feet outside the fence.

Raymond called out to Farley, “Maybe you should’ve beaned him?”

“Shut up,” snarled Farley.

I had to admit, I was pretty impressed. Maybe even a little jealous.

Kenji’s teammates cheered him, but the funny thing was, he made no motion to run the bases.

Red patted him on the back. “You’re all right for a Jap.”

But Kenji turned away with the bat on his shoulder. There was a strange look in his eyes.

“Hey, you gotta run the bases.” Red laughed nervously.

Kenji ignored him and began walking to the schoolhouse.

“Hey! What about the game?” Red shouted.

Kenji stopped, turned, and answered in a pretty good imitation of Clark Gable, “Frankly, freckle-head, I don’t give a darn.” Then he tossed the bat in the dirt—and just walked away.

Sean and Red began to argue over whether Kenji needed to round the bases for it to count. Farley just stood there, pounding his fist in his mitt, grinding his teeth, and getting red in the face.

I watched quietly and found myself wishing that I had been able to do that to Farley.

O
n Saturdays I would usually go to the movies. In fact, every kid in Geneseo would go to the movies. But thanks to Kenji, this Saturday I had to go research “the official Rhode Island marsh weed.” At the movie theater they would show newsreels before the features. The week before, the Fox Movietone News had a story on the German U-boat wolf packs in the Atlantic, and the amazing Doolittle Raid on Japan. I had been trying to remember all the names and places (in case Dad got sent there or wrote about them once he was shipped out), but it was hard because they all sounded so stupid and weird.

As I walked past the Bijou on Main Street, kids were lining up for
Only Angels Have Wings
, that week’s Saturday matinee feature, starring Cary Grant. Just my luck, a picture about pilots on the one day I couldn’t go. I bet Dad would have really liked that one, too. I remember one time, when I was in second grade, Dad snuck me out on a school night to see this silent movie about World War One pilots called
Wings
. To tell the truth, except for the flying scenes, it was kind of boring, but I pretended to love it as much as Dad did. I think that made him enjoy it even more. Afterwards he caught heck from Mom for sneaking me out, but he said it was worth it. I wished I could have snuck Dad out of the Army Air Corps to see this one with me. This time I wouldn’t have had to pretend to like it, because just having Dad sitting next to me would have made it the best movie I ever saw.

I passed by Minnie, Susan, and Libby They said “Hi,” made a few wisecracks about my overalls, and tried to get me to stay, but when I told them I couldn’t, they went right back to giggling about how “dreamy” Cary Grant looked on the movie poster.

I spotted Kenji hopping off the back of his uncle’s bicycle, which was weighted down with all kinds of junky-looking fishing gear.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” his uncle asked.

“I’ll be fine, Uncle,” Kenji said.

I noticed Farley and Raymond smoking a cigarette in the alley, by the trash can. The way they were eyeballing
Kenji, I didn’t think he was gonna be
fine
. But I didn’t tell him that. I didn’t say anything. I had marsh weeds to pick.

Along the shore of the bay, I stomped through the cattails in my dad’s oversized trout-fishing hip boots, buried halfway to my waist in slimy green gunk. I tried to shoo away the mosquitoes buzzing around my head, but they came right back.

“How about the official Geneseo marsh weed?” I whined aloud to myself in my best imitation of Mrs. Simmons. I reached down and grabbed a bunch of weeds and yanked them out by the roots. Then something in the mud grabbed my attention. Clearing the weeds some more, I found it. A strange coil of copper wire. But before I could think about what it was—

“Ahoy, there!”

I jumped about a foot and landed with my butt in the mud. I peered back through the weeds and saw a rowboat, a little ways offshore. It was Father Krauss, along with Mr. Fujita, Kenji’s uncle, back from fishing. They ran the boat aground and hopped out.

I stood up and brushed myself off. “Any sign of the Genny?” I called out.

Father Krauss snickered. “No. Not much of anything biting, I’m afraid.”

Kenji’s uncle quietly thanked Father Krauss and gathered his things to leave.

“No? What about tomorrow, Tomo?” Father Krauss asked.

“No. I cannot,” Mr. Fujita said. “But thank you.” He nodded to me and hurried into the woods on foot.

Father Krauss finished pulling the boat ashore.

“I guess he doesn’t like me much, huh?” I said.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” Father Krauss explained. “Mr. Fujita thinks he and I shouldn’t fish together so much anymore. He thinks people might not like it if I’m friends with someone who’s Japanese. I told him he’s being foolish, but he’s concerned for my well-being.” Then Father Krauss noticed my hands and butt covered in muck. “What on earth have you been up to, Bird?”

“Um, looking for marsh weeds.”

“Hope your luck’s better than mine.” He held up just one sickly-looking fish on his string and shook his head woefully. “Saints alive. Sister Marilyn’s gonna have my head.”

I laughed to think that Father Krauss might be as terrified of Sister Marilyn as all of us kids were. She was short, but she was about as wide as she was tall, like she’d been inflated with a tire pump. She had the uncanny ability to hear a swear word whispered from the farthest corner of the room during Sunday school, and other than Mrs. Storms, the town librarian, Sister Marilyn was the most vicious ear-pincher I ever knew. To top that off, you could never make faces when her back was turned, because she really did seem to have eyes in the back of her head.

“She’s crankier than usual because of all the turnips in
the victory garden. With all the food rationing, we’ve had to eat them every night for a month.” He put the back of his hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, grinning, “They give her
gas.”
He patted me on the head and went on his way.

Once he was gone, I dropped my weeds and plopped down in his rowboat. My arms were pretty sore from pulling weeds and swatting mosquitoes all afternoon, so I figured I would just lie back and rest for a minute or two. I squinted at the puffy clouds overhead and closed my eyes, wondering where Dad was, and whether he was missing me as much as I was him.

“Ow!” I felt a mosquito bite my cheek, but when I swatted it, it stung my face like a bullwhip.
Yeow!
Sunburn. Unlike Margaret, who got tan every summer, I was pale and freckled and quickly burned. The whole side of my head felt like I could have boiled an egg on it. I peeled my eyes open and took a minute to adjust to how dark it had gotten. I realized I must have slept all afternoon. It had to be after eight, ’cause I could already hear the twilight katydids chirping.

And I could hear something else. Whistling.

It was coming from two people. The whistling was off-key, but I could sort of make out the tune. It was a tone-deaf version of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,” the Andrews Sisters’ latest hit.

I stood up in the boat and scanned the woods, but I didn’t see anyone.

Then I saw something move. Some branches. About forty yards away. I squinted my eyes and looked harder. It was Kenji, stepping out of the woods and walking toward me. But he wasn’t whistling.

Farley and Raymond were. They came out of the woods about twenty yards behind him. I ducked down and watched through the weeds. Kenji didn’t bother to turn around, just picked up his pace.

The whistling got faster, and so did Farley’s and Raymond’s footsteps. Suddenly Kenji broke into a full run.

When I looked back an instant later, Raymond and Farley had disappeared.

“Ha!” Kenji spun around and struck a mock karate pose. But no one was there.

A lonely owl hooted in the darkness and I tried to keep from snickering. I could see Kenji relax with relief just as—

A spotlighted ghost face appeared on the branches of the tree above him, laughing. It was Raymond with a flashlight under his chin. He hollered, “Sayonara, sucker!”

Suddenly Farley leapt out and grabbed Kenji from behind. “It’s time Mr. B-b-baseball saw a real Yankee slider. Show him, Raymond.” Farley held Kenji with his arms tight around him.

Raymond worked up a juicy hocker, which wasn’t hard ’cause he was always sneaking his dad’s chewing tobacco. Then he spit and let it fly at Kenji.

But at the last second, Kenji spun around perfectly so
that it was Farley who wound up blinded with an eyeful of tobacco juice.

“Ahhh!” Farley screamed.

Kenji broke free and took off, heading right for me. Raymond jumped down and fussed to clean up Farley. “I’m sorry, Farley.”

Farley brushed him off. “Leave me alone! Just get him!”

Kenji ran hard, panicked. I knew exactly how he felt. I’d been there a hundred times with Farley hot on my heels. But the stink of marsh weeds was still fresh on my hands, reminding me who got me stuck with this lame report topic. “Serves him right,” I said to myself.

The bullies were gaining, though, and I could see that Kenji was getting tired.

“You’re gonna eat mud!” Farley snarled.

Finally my conscience kicked in. Not even Kenji deserved that. I tossed my weed collection into the boat and rocked the boat free.

“Hey! Over here,” I yelled.

Kenji spotted me, but seemed suspicious.

“Stay out of this, Birdbrain!” Farley hollered when he saw me. He and Raymond speeded up as I started to cast off.

“Hurry!” I told Kenji. “Come on.”

It was clear he had no choice but to trust me. He splashed through the water and flopped into the rowboat.

Farley and Raymond, neither one a good swimmer, sloshed into the water after us.