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I didn’t notice it the first time I was twelve. But I’ve definitely noticed it now.
“Now, let’s see what we’ve got…” He rifles around and comes up with a T-shirt with a portrait of the scientist Stephen Hawking. He squints at the name. “Who’s Hawkeye?”
I remembered that moment with a sense of achievement. Back when I was just getting adjusted to my twelve-year-old life (again), I had knocked Dominic to the ground with nothing but the pure strength that I definitely did not (and still don’t) have. I think about that moment a lot. Even now, on the bench next to Miggy at a football stadium during a game.
The other boy squinted at the scoreboard. And then turned to me. “Spaceman, what’s the score?”
“We’re not winning, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“By a little or a lot?”
“A lot. Have you not been keeping track?”
“I tried, well–but like, the numbers get all jumbled up and I forget which side was which.”
I turned on him with narrowed eyes. “Uh-huh. Well, it’s 24:8. 4th quarter.”
“Damn.”
Suddenly, Dominic, who was panting and covered in dirt, approached us. “It’s murder out there. We should just stop the game now ‘cause we’ve already lost.”
I tried to add “Exactly! The refs are–”
“Shut up, Spaceman! I wasn’t talking to you!”
I apologize for trying to speak in your vicinity, m’lord.
There was a pause, and, for an awkward second, nobody spoke. Before Miggy filled the void with “Y’know, I’ve always wondered what our uniforms say.”
Dominic regarded him with a hostile expression. “What do y’mean? It says ‘PANTHERS’, in glaringly white letters–”
He was interrupted by Coach Gallo’s “Holyoke! Over here, right this second!” This gave me the freedom to open my mouth and let speech come out.
“What do you see when you look at the uniform?” I probed.
“I don’t know. Words, I guess. But they’re all jumbled up. So are the numbers. I know you’re number zero, though. That’s easy. Backup to the backup to the backup…” His voice faded into a laugh. And suddenly, it all made sense.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” I cut him off, waving my hand dismissively. “I’m going to tell you something you might not want to hear.”
His brow furrowed. “What, Spaceman?”
“You need glasses.”
… so, when we reentered the bus, everybody was bummed out but nobody was exactly surprised about our loss. I reached into my messenger bag and pulled out my pair of reading glasses. Miggy stared at them with dismay. “I don’t want to wear those. They’ll make me look like a dork. Or a dweeb. Or worse.” Miggy, who was sitting beside me instead of Dominic. Dominic, who was fuming about this fact a few seats behind us.
“Or you’ll look like a Spaceman?” I assumed.
“Exactly.” he replied. Nevertheless, he snatched my glasses out of my hands and put them on. He looked like a dork and a dweeb and a Spaceman.
I tried not to smile. I failed.
He immediately took them off, embarrassed and kind of offended. “I’m not wearing these.”
I, now wracked with laughter, took them from him and put them back on his face as the bus began moving. “That’s not the point! Just try it. Can you see any better?”
He surveyed the area. “Kinda,” he reported. “It doesn’t really make a difference though.”
I held up my hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He had to count them underneath his breath before coming up with “Four.”
I ransacked through my bag and came up with a book–Be More Chill, Ned Vizzini–and handed it to him. “Here,” I offered. “Read this cover.”
“Be More Chill,” he muttered out loud. “Can’t tell what the rest of it is. I think I see ‘money’. And–what does that say, dork? Hey, look you’re in this book–”
“Stop.” I shoved him and yanked the book back. I turned it to the last page. “Write something here.”
“Okay,” he answered. “Do you have like–a pen, or–”
“No. I was hoping you had one.”
“Why would I have a pen?”
“Wishful thinking. Who’s behind us?”
Miggy sat up and turned to face the boys in the seat behind us–Brett and Rolando–with a troubled expression. Before he could say anything, though, Rolando jumped.
“Dude,” Rolando began. “Why are you wearing glasses?”
I heard Miggy mutter a “Shit,” but, by then, the onslaught had already begun.
Brett leaned in toward Rolando. “Aren’t those Mason's reading glasses?”
“You mean Spaceman?” Rolando sneered. “The backup to the backup to the–”
The chant went on for a good 30 seconds between just about the whole of the Pasco Panthers before it died down.
“Yes, yes, ignore that–” Miggy scrambled, flustered. “Do either of you have a pen? Or pencil? Writing utensil?? Something?”
“I dunno.” answered Rolando. “Let me ask Austin.” He turned around the same way that Miggy had previously. “Yo, do you have a pencil?”
“Why would I have a pencil?”
“Wishful thinking.” he returned. He turned back toward us. “No pencil. Or pen. Sorry, man–”
Before he could finish the thought, a black ink pen was launched toward us. It did about three backflips mid-air before hitting me dead in the forehead. Bullseye.
Austin turned, just like the previous two had done, toward the guy in the seat behind him–Dominic.
“Don’t mention it.” he muttered. “I couldn’t stand your bickering. It’s like a mosquito playing a violin in my ear,” to me, he added “I hope that pen knocked your brain back to Earth, Spaceman!”
Miggy turned back around as I began searching for the pen. When I found it rolling against my side, I grabbed it and handed it to him. “Here,” I offered. “Write something now.”
Wordlessly, he clicked the pen into gear and began to scribble down a sentence. When I leaned over to see what he had written, I was face-to-face with:
The quik browm fox jumps over the lazy bog.
“Okay,” I studied it. “Write ‘Spaceman’.”
Sqace Nan
“Write ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’.”
I received a harsh “I can’t write that!”
“Just try your best.”
“I don’t even know what you said.”
“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
Sueqerkalifragilstikexcpielidosus
I looked up at him and was met with puppy-dog eyes worthy of Rufus. “I tried my best, it’s just–like–I don’t actually really know how to spell much. I just sound it out and assume.”
I pondered this. “Okay. Write ‘beauty'."
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Buty
“Try writing ‘gorgeous'."
“Are you trying to get me to call you pretty?? I do not understand the point of this–”
“No. Ew. Don’t ask questions.”
Gorjus
I held out my hand. “Give me my glasses back.”
He did just that. “They didn’t really help all that much.”
“I know they didn’t.” I put the glasses and book back in my bag. I put the pen in my bag for the first time. I sure hope Dominic won’t miss it.
“I don’t get it.”
“Of course you didn’t. You’re dyslexic.”
“D–wha??”
“I’ll send you a few articles when I get home.”