Charlie Joe Jackson's Guide to Not Growing Up (10 page)

Mr. Crabtree looked at her in disbelief.

“What did you say to me?”

Megan wasn't about to back down. “I said, how about you learn to respect the kids? Let them have fun, like boys are supposed to do, instead of scaring them half to death!” She pointed at Chad. “You practically made my boyfriend's brother cry.” Then she looked at Chad. “Sorry, buddy.”

“It's okay,” he said.

“This isn't a sandbox,” said Mr. Crabtree. “This is competitive sports. The kids in this town have it too good—they need to toughen up a little bit, learn how to deal with a little adversity.”

I felt I had to step in and say something. “You're right, sir,” I said. “We do have it too good in this town. We're really lucky. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't let us be kids. Pretty soon we'll all have to face real life. I'm going to high school next year, and it's going to be hard. So while these kids are still in fourth and fifth grade, shouldn't they be allowed to have a little fun?”

“They ARE having fun!” Mr. Crabtree turned around to face a bunch of his players and their parents, who had all gathered around to listen. “Aren't you guys having fun? Aren't you?”

A few kids nodded, murmuring, “Yup” and “Sure,” and one or two of the dads made their kids raise their hands. But most of them didn't say a thing.

Mr. Crabtree's face turned bright red. “Do you people know how many hours I've dedicated to this team?” He waited for an answer, but none came. “Okay, FINE! Find another freakin' coach for all I care!”

He said that last sentence so loud, it scared Coco a little bit. Which wasn't good because when Coco gets scared, she pees on the first thing she sees.

Which happened to be Mr. Crabtree's foot.

“THAT'S IT!” the coach roared. “I'M OUT OF HERE!” He stared me down for one last second. “You're older than these boys, you're supposed to know better,” he spat out. “Grow up!”

Everyone watched him as he marched into the dugout, grabbed his clipboards, his windbreaker, his whistle, and his baseball glove and headed to the parking lot.

Two minutes later, he turned around and came back to the field, because he forgot his son.

“Marcus, let's go!” Marcus, who was tall, fast, and (obviously) the best player on the team, gathered up his two gloves, his six bats, his bat bag, and his catcher's equipment and walked toward the car.

But on his way out, he stopped, bent down, and hugged Moose and Coco.

“Thanks, you guys,” he said. “That was the most fun I've had on a baseball field in a long time.”

 

11

3:31 pm

After Mr. Crabtree left,
the umpire decided to postpone the rest of the game until the next day. We'd left a mess of food wrappers and plates on the field—that's the problem with fun, it's usually messy—so Willy, Megan, Katie, and I started cleaning up. Coco was doing her part by polishing off any last scraps of treats lying around, but Moose was lying down in the shade under a tree.

“That's weird,” I said to Megan. “Moose is never not interested when eating is involved.”

Megan glared at me. “You need to stop feeding him so much junk,” she snapped.

“That has nothing to do with it,” I snapped back.

We fought about that a lot—she was always on me for giving the dogs human food. My philosophy was that humans live a lot longer than dogs, so how can it be bad?

“Well, it's pretty hot out,” Katie said, playing peacemaker. “That was a lot of activity for a senior citizen. He needs a break.”

“Moose isn't a senior citizen,” I said. If I didn't want to think about myself getting older, I DEFINITELY didn't want to think about Moose getting older.

I was putting the last of the PowerBar wrappers into a garbage can when my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Mom:
Where are you?!? I've been calling! Awards ceremony in 30 minutes!!
Oops. I checked—three missed calls.

“We gotta go.” I shook Willy's hand, then went to say goodbye to his little brother Chad. “Nice game,” I said. “You're a good pitcher. You throw hard.”

“I like your dogs,” he replied. “Can they come to every game?”

*   *   *

On the car ride home, Katie and I stared out the window while Megan drove. Nobody said much. We were all tired, and I had a lot to think about. We'd just been to three places where I'd spent a ton of time during the last few years: The Scooper Bowl, Jookie's, and the Little League field. I felt really old at all of them. I felt a little out of place at all of them. And yeah, it still felt good to pull the occasional goofy prank with my dogs. But how much longer could I get away with that?

In other words, it was pretty much going to be all business from here on in.

I looked down and saw the Jookie's hat that Mr. Radonski had given me, lying on the car floor. Heck, I couldn't even go to Jookie's anymore! Oh sure—you might be thinking, why would you want to keep going to Jookie's anyway? It's way too young for you! Well, that may well be, but you've never tasted their chocolate chip cookies. I would stay young forever if I could keep eating those cookies.

But no more Jookie's. No more being a kid. Time to act like a high school student.
Grow up!
Mr. Crabtree had said. And even though he was a jerk, he seemed to be saying exactly what everyone was thinking.

Even Mr. Radonski, the gym teacher who was more immature than me, was getting married!

What was happening? Why was it happening?

And most important: What could I do to stop it?

 

12

3:59 pm

Ties and me
have never gotten along.

I don't even get why ties exist. Who invented ties? What were they thinking? Did that person say to themselves, “Hey, I know! I'm going to invent an article of clothing that you tie incredibly tightly around your neck for absolutely no reason? And to make things worse maybe I'll invent an incredibly hot, uncomfortable, wool jacket to go with it?”

That person should be ashamed of him- or herself.

My point is that I don't like ties. But that didn't matter. Birthday or not, I had no say in the matter. For extra special occasions, I had to wear a jacket and tie, no two ways about it.

Which is why I was scratching, pulling, yanking, and otherwise doing whatever I could to separate my skin from the collar of my shirt, when I walked into the school auditorium at exactly 3:59 p.m.—one minute before the start of the awards ceremony.

“You're going to stretch it past repair,” said my mom, walking behind me and trying to slap my hand away from my shirt.

“I know. That's the whole point.”

I took a look around the auditorium. All the teachers were sitting in the front, on the right side. I saw Ms. Ferrell, my guidance counselor, and Mrs. Massey, my old art teacher—by old, I mean I had her last year, and also she's actually very old.

My Spanish teacher, Señora Cohen, was talking to Mr. Radonski, which was interesting, because Mr. Radonski had once annoyed all the Spanish and French teachers by claiming that foreign languages were overrated. I believe his exact words were, “We should be teaching the rest of the world to speak American, not the other way around!” I guess on graduation day, though, all is forgiven, and we're all one big happy family.

Jake waved. “Charlie Joe, come sit over here!” He and Nareem were saving me a seat. The good news was that they looked just as miserable in their jackets and ties as I did. The bad news was that Timmy and Pete weren't there, because they weren't getting awards. That wasn't all that surprising. What was surprising is that
I
was there.

“Where are Katie and Hannah?”

Jake shrugged. “Probably still in the parking lot, trying to figure out how to walk in heels.” We all laughed and shook our heads. The person who invented high-heeled shoes was as much of a sadist as the person who invented ties.

“There's Hannah,” Nareem said, pointing. She was coming down the aisle with her parents, and yup, Teddy. He saw me and grinned.

“Another swim later, birthday boy?”

I ignored him.

“Hey, that reminds me,” Jake said. “Are you mad that your birthday is on the same day as graduation?”

“Well, I'm not overly thrilled about it, to tell you the truth.” I checked to see if my parents were looking, and then I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. I can only describe the feeling as similar to what a person probably feels when they're let out of jail after twenty-five years. “But I am having a separate birthday party next weekend, so we're all good there,” I added. “It's gonna be at Chow's Palace.” I had recently developed an obsession with Chinese food, especially spare ribs. You haven't lived until you've had Chow's spare ribs.

I was scanning the crowd, looking for Katie and her parents, when the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed. A light went up on the stage, and there was our principal, Mrs. Sleep, standing at the microphone.

“If I could have your attention, please,” she said, in that deep voice that had scared the heck out of me for years. “Welcome students, faculty, parents, family, and friends. On the day when our students will soon leave us to go on to bigger and better things, we pause to stop, and reflect, and honor those among us who have accomplished a special measure of achievement. Welcome to the thirty-ninth annual Eastport Middle School Awards Ceremony!”

The program began, and the first batch of awards was handed out. Nareem won the Math Award, for solving some theorem that probably would have stumped Albert Einstein. Hannah won the School Spirit Award, which makes sense, since she was the most loved and admired student in the whole school (see, it wasn't just me). Big Phil Manning won the Sportsman Award, maybe because if they didn't give it to him, he would have picked up Mr. Radonski and tossed him into a garbage can. And Jake Katz won the Science Award, for inventing a gadget that allows you to exercise while petting your dog. Everybody had to give a little speech after they got their prize—kind of like the Academy Awards, I guess, but without the huge orchestra—but nobody said anything particularly interesting except for Celia Barbarossa, who got the Music Award and then proceeded to tell everyone that she was giving up the flute and taking up competitive wind-surfing. I think she may have even shocked her parents with that one.

As more and more prizes were handed out and the ceremony wound down, I sat there, waiting and wondering. What awards were left? What award could I possibly win? Was there some sort of Wisenheimer Award?

Mrs. Sleep came up to the podium. “And now, I'd like to introduce Ms. Reedy.”

I clapped loudly. Ms. Reedy was the librarian and reading and writing tutor, so I wouldn't blame you for thinking she was my enemy. But for some reason, she wasn't. She wasn't even my frenemy. The truth was, she was one of my favorite people at school. I wondered who would get the Library Award. Maybe I would get the Anti-Library Award.

Ms. Reedy cleared her throat. “It is my honor and privilege to give out the last award of the day, on behalf of the English department and library staff here at EMS.”

My heart started pounding.

“This is the Creative Writing Award, and it goes to Charlie Joe Jackson.”

Wait,
WHAT?!?!

You know how sometimes, you have this thing where you hear something, and then you kind of feel your brain start to float away, so that it's almost like you're watching everything—including yourself—from ten feet above the ground? I think they call it an “out of body experience.” Well, that was what I started having, as soon as I heard my name called.

Other kids started slapping me on the back, as I pushed myself up out of my chair. My mom jumped up and gave me a big hug, while my dad kept repeating, “I knew you could do it! I knew you could do it!” I high-fived a few other people walking down the aisle, and felt my head buzzing with disbelief as I climbed the stairs to the stage.