Read Online Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas by Richard Scrimger - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Scrimger
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playground at lunchtime. These are his real work clothes.
“You, there,” he says, glaring at Michael, back from the principal’s office with a note to take home, “go to the other side of the gym.”
Mr. Gebohm can talk with the whistle in his mouth. All gym teachers can. “You, too,” he calls to Justin.
Michael stalks away. Justin glides after him, his pants swishing around his skinny hips.
“You, too,” says Mr. Gebohm, pointing farther down, “and you, and you.” He points to every second or third person, separating us into two teams.
“Okay! Go!” he says, whipping the ball at Justin. It flies like a big round white bullet, and hits him on the knee.
“You’re Out!” cries Mr. Gebohm. Justin hobbles to the sidelines, grimacing. “Come On!”
Michael picks up the ball and throws it, almost as hard as the teacher. At whom does he aim? Why, me of course. I think Michael must hate me particularly – he’s always picking on me. I don’t know why – I’m not mean to him. I don’t make fun, or anything. I picked him to be Godfather Stahlbaum in the play. Most of the time I try to be nice to him. And not just because he’s a bully, the way you’d be nice to a Mafia don who happened to be in your homeroom.
Anyway, I stand still, like a deer in the headlights, only I’m not as big – say, a woodchuck in the headlights, while the ball travels toward my face at the speed of light, looming bigger and bigger, blocking out the rest of the world.
Then Brad steps in front of me and tries to catch the ball. He misses. He’s out. “Sorry, Jane,” he says.
I smile at him – a nice guy. “Thanks for saving me,” I say.
“Got you, Brad!” cries Michael. “Brad the weenie!”
Patti’s face is red. She picks up the bouncing ball and hurls it at Michael. It goes way high, hits the basketball backboard, and actually bounces in.
We all laugh and cheer. “Good shot!” I call to her.
She stares at me. Her eyes are narrow. My best friend – what’s wrong with her?
Michael and Jiri are the two biggest and strongest boys in the class, and they’re on opposite teams. Michael throws the ball really hard, but Jiri always seems to hold back.
“Harder!” his team shouts at him. “Throw it harder, Jiri.”
What he can do is catch the ball. In dodgeball, if you catch the other team’s throw before it bounces, the thrower is out. Jiri has the softest hands. He has trouble hitting anyone else with the ball because he doesn’t throw very hard, but he gets lots of people out because he catches their throws.
Another thing he can do is dodge. I don’t know how. He’s big and a bit bulky, but he sideslips effortlessly. Time and again I’m sure someone is going to nail him, but at the last second he shuffles to one side and the ball sails past. He’s the size of a moose, but he swoops like a bird, out of the way of oncoming trouble.
It helps that Michael is not throwing at him. Michael prefers to pick the other members of the team. One by one, we all fall to him.
When I am hit, fairly early, I sit on the end of the bench. Brad comes over to sit down.
“Hey, thanks again,” I say.
Then Patti gets hit, and runs to sit beside me. “Hi, there!” I say, glad to see that she’s got over being mad. But she’s not even talking to me. Head turned, she has something to say to Brad.
Only two people left. Michael on one side, and Jiri on the other. Mr. Gebohm is smiling around the whistle in his mouth, and rubbing his hands together. I realize, now, that this is what he wanted. The two boys are opponents. He didn’t like Michael sticking up for Jiri on the playground. “Come on, boys. Throw hard now. Next one’s the winner.”
Jiri has the ball. He frowns, and puts the ball down. “A tie,” he says.
“No!” shouts Mr. Gebohm. “I Want One Of You To Get It!”
Jiri frowns at him. “Please?”
“Come On!” Mr. Gebohm mimes throwing the ball. “Throw, Stupid!”
Jiri shrugs, and aims a
“You, there,” he says, glaring at Michael, back from the principal’s office with a note to take home, “go to the other side of the gym.”
Mr. Gebohm can talk with the whistle in his mouth. All gym teachers can. “You, too,” he calls to Justin.
Michael stalks away. Justin glides after him, his pants swishing around his skinny hips.
“You, too,” says Mr. Gebohm, pointing farther down, “and you, and you.” He points to every second or third person, separating us into two teams.
“Okay! Go!” he says, whipping the ball at Justin. It flies like a big round white bullet, and hits him on the knee.
“You’re Out!” cries Mr. Gebohm. Justin hobbles to the sidelines, grimacing. “Come On!”
Michael picks up the ball and throws it, almost as hard as the teacher. At whom does he aim? Why, me of course. I think Michael must hate me particularly – he’s always picking on me. I don’t know why – I’m not mean to him. I don’t make fun, or anything. I picked him to be Godfather Stahlbaum in the play. Most of the time I try to be nice to him. And not just because he’s a bully, the way you’d be nice to a Mafia don who happened to be in your homeroom.
Anyway, I stand still, like a deer in the headlights, only I’m not as big – say, a woodchuck in the headlights, while the ball travels toward my face at the speed of light, looming bigger and bigger, blocking out the rest of the world.
Then Brad steps in front of me and tries to catch the ball. He misses. He’s out. “Sorry, Jane,” he says.
I smile at him – a nice guy. “Thanks for saving me,” I say.
“Got you, Brad!” cries Michael. “Brad the weenie!”
Patti’s face is red. She picks up the bouncing ball and hurls it at Michael. It goes way high, hits the basketball backboard, and actually bounces in.
We all laugh and cheer. “Good shot!” I call to her.
She stares at me. Her eyes are narrow. My best friend – what’s wrong with her?
Michael and Jiri are the two biggest and strongest boys in the class, and they’re on opposite teams. Michael throws the ball really hard, but Jiri always seems to hold back.
“Harder!” his team shouts at him. “Throw it harder, Jiri.”
What he can do is catch the ball. In dodgeball, if you catch the other team’s throw before it bounces, the thrower is out. Jiri has the softest hands. He has trouble hitting anyone else with the ball because he doesn’t throw very hard, but he gets lots of people out because he catches their throws.
Another thing he can do is dodge. I don’t know how. He’s big and a bit bulky, but he sideslips effortlessly. Time and again I’m sure someone is going to nail him, but at the last second he shuffles to one side and the ball sails past. He’s the size of a moose, but he swoops like a bird, out of the way of oncoming trouble.
It helps that Michael is not throwing at him. Michael prefers to pick the other members of the team. One by one, we all fall to him.
When I am hit, fairly early, I sit on the end of the bench. Brad comes over to sit down.
“Hey, thanks again,” I say.
Then Patti gets hit, and runs to sit beside me. “Hi, there!” I say, glad to see that she’s got over being mad. But she’s not even talking to me. Head turned, she has something to say to Brad.
Only two people left. Michael on one side, and Jiri on the other. Mr. Gebohm is smiling around the whistle in his mouth, and rubbing his hands together. I realize, now, that this is what he wanted. The two boys are opponents. He didn’t like Michael sticking up for Jiri on the playground. “Come on, boys. Throw hard now. Next one’s the winner.”
Jiri has the ball. He frowns, and puts the ball down. “A tie,” he says.
“No!” shouts Mr. Gebohm. “I Want One Of You To Get It!”
Jiri frowns at him. “Please?”
“Come On!” Mr. Gebohm mimes throwing the ball. “Throw, Stupid!”
Jiri shrugs, and aims a
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