Lucky Cap (6 page)

Lance glared at me. “Count me out, for sure. You coming, Chase?”

“Which way you going?” Chase asked me.

Oh, yeah. I forgot. Home. I had to get home. And the bus had left ages ago. And home was far away.

I nodded in the opposite direction they were going.

“All right, then,” Chase said. “Catch you tomorrow, Enzo. I bet you'll be on Killer's list.”

Lance grumbled, “Yeah, right,” under his breath.

“Thanks,” I said. “I bet you will be, too”—I glanced at Lance—“Chase.”

Lance faked a smile, then erased it. “Come on, dude,” he said, bumping Chase's shoulder with his own.

They walked away, smacking each other around like guys do.

I was alone. And a long way from home.

I took out my cell. An empty battery symbol flashed a few times, then the phone went dark again.

I adjusted my cap and started walking.

Usually I get home from the first day of school exhausted, depressed, bitter, and dreading the hundreds of school days ahead of me. But even after the long walk, I was in a pretty upbeat mood.

Mom, on the other hand, was a basket case.

“Where have you been?”
she screeched when I walked through the door. She threw her arms around me and squeezed and kissed me desperately, as if I'd just run out of a burning building or something.

“You weren't on the bus,” Lupe chimed in. She was sitting on the new flowery, pink couch, and making the universally recognized face for
I got you so busted!

When Mom finally released me, and my blood started circulating again, I told her about basketball tryouts, then I spilled the whole day's events in one big rush of words. (Who cares about being cool around your mom?) She shrieked with joy and congratulations.

“I am not surprised,” she said. “My strong, handsome, intelligent boy!”

Then she hugged the life out of me again.

Lupe fumed on the couch. Obviously, Miss Perfect had hoped I would fall flat on my face at Stan. Ha! Take that, Lupe!

Dinner wasn't ready, so I headed to the laundry room, took my sweaty gym clothes out of my duffel, dumped them in a hamper, then climbed the stairs to my two-toned room. The walls were still bare. I had decided not to rehang my old posters and stuff. Instead, I'd hang the new Kap stuff from the trip, including the real prize: an autographed, full-color, life-size photo of LeBron James, slam-dunking. I so looked forward to the day when I could slam dunk. I imagined it was at least a couple years off.

I took off my cap and set it on my dresser, visor pointing back at me. It was a bit worn, a little dirtier and sweatier. But its bill was still flat.

“Thanks, buddy,” I said to it.

I ate a big dinner: three of my mom's beef empanadas, some carrot onion salad, and two bowls of ice cream for dessert. Probably because of the tryouts. And the walk home.

I hadn't gotten any homework, so I watched an A's game with my dad. He asked how my first day of middle school went.

“The rules are ridiculous,” I said. “The bus ride stinks. Lupe was a total snob to me.” I paused. “But it was pretty good.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I met a couple guys. Chase and Lance. One of them is pretty cool. Lance is out to get me.”

“Already?”

“I think he thinks I'm trying to be Chase's new best friend.”

“Are you?”

“I just met him. He's okay.”

“And Kai?”

I sighed. “Kai still acts like a fourth grader.”

“You guys have been friends an awful long time.”

“Yeah, but this is middle school, Dad. There's a lot more guys to choose from.”

Dad looked at me like a dad, like he knew everything about being a boy, because he'd been there, and there wasn't anything I could be thinking or feeling that he hadn't already thought and felt, and that he could easily set me straight and tell me exactly what I should do in order not to screw up, but he wasn't going to do that, because I had to figure stuff out for myself. He probably thought his being quiet right then did me more good than offering advice. But I wouldn't have minded the advice.

“Did you tell everyone about the trip?” he asked.

“Not very much,” I said. “I want to make it last. And I don't want to sound too braggy. That'll turn people off.”

Dad nodded. “I see.”

We watched the game awhile, then I asked, “How's Evan? How's the job?”

“Good,” Dad said. “Evan seems pleased with my work, at least.”

“Of course he is. He thinks you're great.”

“If you say so. I feel old down there. It's not the same as it was at G&W.”

Duh!
I thought. What was wrong with him?

After the game, as he got up to leave, he patted my shoulder and said, “Good luck tomorrow with the team. And with the election.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But, hey, don't mention my running for class president to Evan, okay?”

I made the team. All hail the cap!

Chase made it, too, which was kind of a surprise. I think he got picked because he tried so hard. Coach Keller gave him an A for effort.

And Lance? He got cut. I wasn't exactly crushed.

I also cleared the general election for class president on Friday. The top five vote getters would move on to the run-off election, in October. I was one of them. Chase wasn't. Neither was Giovanni.

All the candidates—including those for vice president, secretary, and treasurer—started campaigning, which mostly meant making and hanging posters and banners. Kyla, the girl in my homeroom who nominated me, volunteered to be my campaign manager, and got some of her friends to help her. It was fine by me. At least I didn't have to make any stupid posters or banners.

They came up with catchy slogans like:

ELECT ENZO!

ENZ FOR PREZ!

ENZO FOR PREZIDENZO!

THE ENZ JUSTIFIES THE MEANS!

Chase said Kyla worked so hard for me because she liked me, and a rumor to that effect started bouncing around the halls. Kyla instructed me not to deny the rumors. She told me to say, “No comment.” She said rumors were publicity, and all publicity was good. But I thought she probably had a different agenda. Like Chase said, she liked me. I didn't like her back, of course. I just wanted to win the election. I guess I was using her. Wasn't that what politicians did?

One of my opponents challenged me to a debate. Kyla advised against it.

“You don't win school elections because of your positions on school issues,” she told me.

“No? What do we win on?”

She just blushed, and said, “Cuteness.”

Again, I went along. I didn't want to debate anybody. I wasn't really sure what my positions even were.

I got pretty excited as the election grew near. I enjoyed competition. I liked winning. And I figured I would win. With the cap, how could I lose?

All the candidates did have to give three-minute speeches during a class assembly in the gym. Kyla, again, instructed me to ignore the issues and just make the speech funny.

“Use a lot of popular expressions and gestures, repeat the slogans, get the crowd chanting, then get off the stage,” she told me.

In the end, she wrote my speech for me. It was pretty funny. I wondered why she didn't just run for president herself. But I guess, secretly, I knew. She must not have had anything magical, like my cap. And she wasn't cute enough, either.

I did have to punch up the speech a bit. It was too girly in places. Then I rehearsed it in front of the bathroom mirror at home. Sometimes the Sisterhood would bang on the door and yell things like, “There are other people in this house besides you, Mr. President!” and “I bet Abe Lincoln never spent this much time in the bathroom!” But I ignored them. My speech was important. I had to get it right.

I got pretty jittery the next day during the class assembly, waiting for my turn. We had to sit on folding chairs in the middle of the gym floor, facing the audience, who sat on the bleachers. I didn't even bother listening to the two candidates' speeches before mine. I knew who I was voting for. Plus I wanted to stay focused. I'd never prepared so hard for anything this school related in my life, and I wasn't even going to get graded on it. What was I doing? I thought about Evan, and how I was going against his advice about never running for office. I thought about bolting.

But I didn't. I stayed. I understood that my reputation depended on not quitting, and if I'd learned anything yet about middle school, it was that your rep was everything.

Finally, they called my name.

My fellow sixth graders started clapping. Some whooped and cheered. Kyla's crew, probably. One kid was doing one of those loud, fingers-in-your-mouth whistles. And I heard one hiss. Lance, probably. Or Kai?

I was wearing my best Kap gear, including the cap, of course. I wasn't sure if that was okay. I didn't see anybody in the audience wearing one. But I was onstage. Wasn't a person allowed to wear anything he wanted onstage? Under the circumstances, wasn't the cap part of my costume?

I decided right then my first act as president would be to repeal the no-caps-worn-in-school rule.

As I neared the microphone stand, I scanned the crowd. They were mostly smiling and clapping. I loved it. I suddenly understood my sister Desi in a whole new way. Being liked by so many people—being popular—felt amazing.

“No… thank you… thank you… please,” I said, motioning for quiet. “No… that's too much… that's too much… thank you.”

They got louder. I heard laughter, which gave me a real charge.

Kyla and her gang jumped to their feet and started chanting, “EN-ZO! EN-ZO! EN-ZO!”

I did the quiet gesture again: raising my palms and pumping them against the air, as if I were actually trying to push back their cheering.

“You're too kind… really… thank you… thank you…”

They got even louder. I could see our principal, Ms. Kish, out of the corner of my eye, getting ready to come over and silence everyone. I didn't want that. This was my crowd. My moment. I would silence them.

I lifted the mic from its stand and wandered closer to the audience.
My
audience. Like magic, they quieted down. I think it really was magic. The magic of the prototype. The magic of the cap.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

This wasn't the opening I'd rehearsed. It wasn't in the speech Kyla had written and I'd punched up. It had just come to me. Magically. And it got laughs. I decided then that I didn't need a script. I would put my trust in the cap. It would give me the words to say.

“Let's face it,” I went on. “We're sixth graders. Which makes us, basically… well… punching bags. When an eighth grader has a bad day, he just picks on one of us, and then he feels a whole lot better.”

I lowered the mic and made an exaggerated
What're-ya-gonna-do?
gesture. “So here I am, running for president of the sixth-grade class. In other words, I'm running for top punching bag. Why would a guy want to do such a thing?”

I shook my head.

“
You
wouldn't do such a thing. You're
not
doing such a thing. You're smart. Smarter than me. Only me and these guys”—I gestured at the other candidates behind me—“are
dumb
enough to run for top punching bag.”

I glanced at Ms. Kish. She had her head tilted and was shaking it tightly at me, telling me to knock it off. I looked at Kyla. She was squinting at me, probably because I was straying from her precious script, but she was also smiling. I judged from the reactions of these two females that I was doing all right. So I went on.

“These other candidates have high hopes for us this year. They have big plans. They will make this the brightest, shiningest, most amazingest year ever… for every
punching bag at Stan.”

I was moving up and down the length of the bleachers, nodding and swaggering. I had these guys in the palms of my hands.

“What do I have?” I asked.

I scanned the crowd, as if I was hoping for an answer. I wasn't hoping for anything. I'd already decided what the answer to my question would be. I'd decided before I'd asked it. And it wasn't in the script.

“Do I have high hopes?” I asked. “Do I have big plans? What do I have?”

The audience got quiet and leaned in, waiting for my answer. I felt it. I felt them come to me. It was delicious.

“I have,” I said, and pointed up, “a cap on my head.”

There was an explosion then, a
BOOM!
of screaming, hooting, foot stomping, fist pumping, whistling, cheering—the works.

“I have a cap on my head…,” I added, “…
in school
!”

The crowd went nuts. Especially the guys. They started slamming into each other, making ape noises, slapping their hands together like seals.

I soaked it up for a while, then I raised my hands for silence. The crowd obeyed this time. They were mine. I glanced at Ms. Kish. She was not happy. Kyla was. I spotted Lance, his arms crossed, sulking. I was having a blast.

I lowered my hands. I cleared my throat. Then I spoke, slowly, solemnly:

“My first order of business as president of the proud…
brave
… sixth-grade class of Stanislaus Middle School”—I paused to hear the echo of my words. I heard a pen drop, ricochet around the supports under the bleachers, then hit the floor—“will be to
repeal the no-caps-worn-in-school rule
!”

The audience (mostly the guys) jumped to their feet. Someone (probably Kyla) started the chant up again: “EN-ZO! EN-ZO! EN-ZO! EN-ZO!”

I smiled and waved and bowed till Ms. Kish came over and made me sit down. It took her a while to get the crowd quiet.