The Twinning Project (10 page)

You could see their faces clearly. You could see the sweat on the pitcher's face. The batter needed a shave. He swung, a grounder to deep short, a bang-bang play at first. And then it played again. Instantly. Twice.

“When did they start doing that?” said Eddie.

“Baseball? Around two hundred years ago.”

Eddie laughed. That was pretty funny. “No, playing it over again right away.”

“Instant replay?” The Lump took a sip of his beer and looked at Eddie as if he wasn't sure whether he was being a wise guy or not. “In the sixties.”

Too bad,
thought Eddie.
I'll have to wait a few years.

“You interested all of a sudden? Or just for the postseason?”

I've been a big fan all my life,
Eddie wanted to say, but he caught himself in time.
The real Tom isn't a fan.

“Who's playing?”

“L.A. and the Mets.”

“L.A.?”

“The Dodgers.”

“They're in Brooklyn.”

“Not since 1957.”

“They moved?”

“Obviously. You really do hate sports.”

I love sports,
Eddie thought.
In the last century
. “And the Mets?”

“They started in 1962. Before your time.”

After my time
, Eddie thought.
Have to wait five more years. Better keep my mouth shut.

“Grab a soda, watch with me,” said Keith. “You might like it.”

The only Cokes in the fridge were Diet Cokes, but he took one. He broke off a little ring on top trying to open it, and when he had to use an opener, he nearly crushed the can in his hand, it was so soft. And it tasted funny. He didn't like it, but he sipped at it while he watched the game.

“Who are you rooting for?” he asked Keith.

“Doesn't matter. Yankees are my team.”

“Me, too.”

Keith squinted at him. “Who's your favorite Yankee?” It sounded like a trick question.

“The Mick.”

“Mantle? He died before you were born.”

Mickey Mantle dead? Eddie felt sad. He loved Mickey Mantle. He practiced switch hitting to be like him. “I saw pictures of him,” he said. “Great swing. So fast.”

“Watch this guy,” said Keith, pointing at the screen. “The real deal. He's got power, and he doesn't strike out much.”

They watched the batter punch a double to the opposite field.

“Really sits on the pitch,” said Eddie. “You gotta have great eyes to wait until the last second like that. Probably can't fool him with a curve.”

Keith stared at Eddie.

Uh-oh,
thought Eddie,
I'd better get out of here before I say something that makes him suspicious.
“I really need to finish my homework. See you in the morning, Keith.”

“Sure.”

Eddie could tell he liked being called Keith by someone he thought was Tom, maybe for the first time. He gave Eddie a smile and a thumbs-up.

“Is there a game tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe I could watch with you.”

“I'd like that,” Keith said.

Upstairs, Eddie thought about trying again to figure out Tom's TV set and watch the game, but he decided he couldn't make any more mistakes. Maybe he could get Alessa to show him how to use the TV, the computer, and the phone, if Tom's little phone was still around. Too much to learn too fast.

The pills would be a good excuse for a while, he thought, but eventually he'd need a better reason not to be using all these gadgets.

NEARMONT, N.J.

2011

 

I
N
the car to school, Alessa was thumbing her telephone.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm surfing for ideas.”

“Don't get wet.”

Eddie thought it was a pretty good joke, but Alessa just squinted at him. “Surfing means looking for something on the Internet, you idiot. Did you forget that, too?”

“What are you looking for?”

“Middle school election campaigns.”

Eddie looked over her shoulder. The little screen read, “Rule Number One: School elections are not fair.”

“Everything should be fair.”

“You want to win, right?”

“Not if it's unfair,” said Eddie.

“Life's unfair,” said Alessa.

“Sports are fair.”

“Right. Like steroids.”

“What's that?”

Alessa sighed. “Google it.” She sounded impatient.

He was annoyed. She knew he didn't know how to Google. “Maybe things would be better if people stopped Googling all the time.”

“C'mon, you sound like somebody from another century,” said Alessa. Her thumbs were dancing on her phone. “Besides, what would we do without the Internet?”

“Talk to each other? Try to get along better?”

Alessa didn't look up. “That'll be the day.”

 

The teachers were having a conference in the auditorium, so the seventh grade was marched into the gym to play dodgeball. Eddie liked dodgeball, but he could see why kids hated it when Britzky yelled “Britzkyball!” and started nailing them. The teachers in the gym were busy thumbing their tiny telephones and couldn't care less.

Britzky kept glancing at Eddie but didn't throw the ball his way. Instead, he kept trying to nail Alessa and the kids who sat at her cafeteria table. Alessa didn't move very fast, and she got whacked in the face and went into a corner so people wouldn't see her cry. Eddie felt sorry for her. Tom would have done something. Probably with one of his electronic devices.

What should I do?
Eddie thought.
It's not like I'm on Britzky's side or anything, but Alessa did make that nasty crack about his face, and even though she's a girl, she should know you can't go around insulting people and not think they're going to get mad and try to get even.

But she was Tom's friend and she was helping him. She was on Eddie's team.

He thought about decking Britzky, but Tom was on probation, so he'd probably get suspended. He could tell Britzky to stop, but if he didn't, what would Eddie do next? Tom wouldn't run to a teacher.

What would Captain Eddie do?
If a guy on the team messed up or had a bad attitude, it never did much good to punch him out or even yell at him. You take him aside and talk to him privately, or at least show him the right way by your own actions.

Sorry, Tom. Maybe we have to do this the Captain Eddie way.

When Britzky pegged the ball at Hannah, the green-haired girl, Eddie ran out on the court, leaped up, and grabbed it in midair. It was like intercepting a pass. It caught everybody's attention. The gym got quiet. Britzky faced Eddie, all tensed up. Eddie thought Britzky looked like he wasn't sure if he should start searching for a place to hide or get ready to fight.

Relax,
Eddie thought,
I'm not going to act like you
.

He shouted, “You win, Britzky. Game's over.”

He dribbled the dodgeball between his legs, did his double spin, and fired a jumper at the nearest basket, which was almost a half-court away. It wasn't a pretty shot; it was no nothing-but-net, just a soft bank off the backboard. But it did the job. The dodgeball spun in the rim and fell through.

Crowd goes wild!

One of the gym teachers came over. “I thought you played the violin.”

“Not right now,” Eddie said.

For the rest of the gym period, while everybody stood and watched, the gym teacher made Eddie shoot baskets from different places on the floor with a real basketball. Eddie thought about all the hours with Dad at the hoop on the garage. When Dad was around, they'd get out there even if they had to shovel snow off the driveway. Eddie pretended Dad was in the crowd in the gym cheering him on, and he sank almost everything—layups, jumpers, set shots, even his alley-oop. He ignored the slipping flu symptoms.

“Can you drain some free throws for me?” said the gym teacher.

“Better believe it.”

Dad always made Eddie finish a practice by shooting a hundred free throws. He was sinking sixty percent when Dad disappeared, and now he was up to almost eighty percent. Dad said the foul shot was the one thing you could totally control on the court and there was no excuse for not being solid at the line. It showed discipline.

This was for Dad.

Eddie set up, talking to himself:
Fingertips on the ball, keep your back and arms straight to get as much reach as possible, lower the ball between your legs . . .

“You kidding me?” said the gym teacher. “You think you're Rick Barry?”

“Who?”

“Before your time. We don't shoot underhand free throws anymore.” He held his hands up and pretended to toss a ball. “Overhand.”

Eddie thought,
The real Eddie would do what the coach says, but I'm not Eddie now. I'm Tom. And besides, this was how Dad taught me.

He threw up the ball underhand.

Swish.

The gym teacher just stared. Eddie didn't move. The ball bounced itself into a corner. Everybody was waiting to see what happened next.

Finally, the gym teacher shrugged, picked up the basketball, and bounced it to Eddie, who gave him a little salute, spun the ball on his fingertips, set, and shot.
Swish.

He sank seventeen in a row underhand before the PA system announced that the teacher meeting had ended and that students should return to their classrooms. Eddie noticed Britzky glaring at him over his shoulder as he hurried out. This wasn't over yet.

The gym teacher walked up grinning and raised his hand. When Eddie just stared at it, he said, “High-five, my man.” Eddie figured it out and slapped the gym teacher's palm. “We'll be starting tryouts for the team in a couple of weeks. What position do you play?”

“Point guard.”

“Outstanding. Be there or be square.” He winked. “And try to stay out of trouble, Canty. We could really use you.”

Alessa caught up to Eddie in the hall afterward. “That was awesome. This election will be a slam dunk.”

“A what?”

“I'm texting the Tom Canty for President Committee right now.” She was thumbing away. “We've got to come up with a slogan.”

“You're going to do that on the phone?”

“You want to waste your time in meetings?”

“That's how people get things done—they talk to each other face-to-face . . .”

“They babble away, have ego trips, waste time. You want to have to sit and look at some dork?”

“Maybe if people did that, the world wouldn't be so screwed up.”

“That is so two-point-oh.”

“What does that mean?”

“Here's one.” She read from the little screen. “‘Let Tom quarterback the seventh grade.' Not bad.”

“This school doesn't have a football team.”

“Oh. Right.” She hit a button.

“We need people to work together to solve the problems,” he said.

“What kind of problems? This is middle school, not the Middle East.”

“I think all these gadgets get in the way.”

“Are you kidding? People never talked before. Now we have Facebook, Twitter, new ways to stay in touch.”

“I think everybody's talking to themselves.” Eddie started to get excited. “They should turn off all the machines so they can hear each other.”

“Never happen.” She looked at Eddie. “But it might make a campaign slogan.”

While he was trying to think of what to say next, he realized that the flu was gone. He felt good.

Tom must have landed.

NEARMONT, N.J.

1957

 

A
FLASHLIGHT
dazzled my eyes. The flu was gone. I was hungry. I hadn't eaten Grandpa's turkey wrap. I was sitting against a tree, hugging my violin bag.

A familiar voice said, “Everything okay, sonny?” A strong hand pulled me to my feet. “Chop-chop.”

“Grandpa!”

He held me by my shoulders and looked me over. “None the worse.”

“What's going on?”

He hurried me toward a parked car. “You were at Boy Scout camp and you wandered off a trail and fell down a cliff. You were missing for hours.”

“I don't remember any of that.”

“It never happened. It's the cover story for why you have amnesia.”

“Amnesia?”

“Just relax. You're Eddie now.” Grandpa opened the trunk of the car and pulled a Boy Scout uniform out of a duffel bag. “Put this on. Hurry.”

He had to help me with the yellow neckerchief. Then he rubbed some dirt on the uniform and tore one of the sleeves.

“Why did you do that?”

“You fell down a cliff, remember?”

“No.”

“You're not supposed to remember. Amnesia. Don't forget.”

Grandpa opened the passenger door of his car, a red and white Chevy, the kind you see in old movies. I said, “Cool vintage ride.”

“Two years old,” said Grandpa proudly. “A Bel Air.”

I remembered it was 1957 here.

Grandpa drove down a street of identical houses. In the streetlights they looked like square white ghost boxes. How could you know which one was yours?

We pulled up in front of one of them.

“This is it, Eddie.”

“I'm Tom. What the hell is going on?”

“Watch your mouth.” He was pulling me out of the car and across a little front lawn to the house. “We don't like that kind of language here.”

A dog raced toward us, barking.

“That's your dog, Buddy.”

I never had a dog.

The dog stopped, growled at me. I guess I didn't smell like Eddie. Or he could tell I don't like dogs, especially floppy-eared cocker spaniels like him who think they're so cute.

“Work on him,” said Grandpa. “Give him treats.”