Sidetracked Read online

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

  LCCN: 2016052084

  ISBN: 978-1-4197-2601-9

  eISBN: 978-1-68335-120-7

  Text copyright © 2017 Diana Harmon Asher

  Jacket illustration © 2017 Jim Tierney

  Book design by Siobhán Gallagher

  Published in 2017 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

  Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

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  For my mother.

  –DA

  Chapter 1

  “Friedman!”

  I open my eyes and look up. It’s Coach DeSalvo and he’s trudging my way.

  “Me?” I say.

  Coach DeSalvo stops in front of me. He folds his arms and looks around the soccer field. “I don’t see any other Friedmans here,” he says.

  That’s not strictly true. There’s Tiffany Freedman, but she spells it with two “E”s, and she’s a girl.

  “Friedman,” he says again, “what are you doing back there?”

  “Um . . . playing defense?” I answer.

  “From behind the goal?” I look at the net. Yup. It’s clearly in front of me. “What’s the matter with you, anyway, Friedman? What are you afraid of?”

  I want to say, “Green olives with red speckled tongues.” I want to say, “Stewed prunes and vampire bats and street sweepers.” I want to say, “Charlie Kastner,” who just a minute ago was charging toward me with a crazed look that I’ve seen in the eyes of a raging buffalo on Animal Planet, which is why I’ve ended up crouched behind the goal, covering my head with my hands, during our first PE class of seventh grade.

  But instead, I just say, “Nothing.”

  “Nothing. Good.” Coach DeSalvo walks around the net, plants a meaty hand in the middle of my back, and guides me to a spot near the middle of the field. “Then pick it up, Friedman. Stop running away from the ball.”

  All this has made my stomach shake, but I manage to say, “Okay.”

  Coach DeSalvo marches over to the other side of the field. He blows his whistle and the game starts up again.

  “Frank,” I say to Frank Maldonado, “am I on your team?”

  He looks at me like he’s not sure if I’m kidding. I’m not.

  “Yes. Unfortunately,” he says.

  “How can you tell?” I ask.

  “Pinnies?” he says, like it’s a question I should know the answer to.

  I look around. Half the kids are wearing those little blue bibs. “Oh. Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I try to move around like the other kids, in case Coach DeSalvo is watching, but, not surprisingly, he’s forgotten all about me. I drift over toward the sideline, where a gray squirrel is hunting around in that herky-jerky squirrelly way. I watch how he picks up a fat brown maple seed—the kind with wings that looks like an angel. He clutches it in his pointy little squirrel hands, turning it around and around to find just the right biting-in place.

  Then all of a sudden he freezes. He sits up straight, staring at a spot right behind me.

  I freeze too, feeling the earth shake under me. I turn to see what’s causing it: twenty-four sets of middle school feet charging down the field. And out in front is Charlie Kastner, dribbling the soccer ball like a maniac and heading straight for me.

  This time, there’s nowhere to run. All I can do is brace for impact and hope to heal up by Thanksgiving.

  But instead of being smashed and ground to dust, I watch as Charlie’s legs fly miraculously out from under him. His big sweaty body tumbles through the air. It seems like an eternity that he’s up there, and then he lands with a thud on the grass. Someone has taken out Charlie Kastner and stolen the ball!

  It’s a girl.

  She’s by me in a flash, passing so close that her hair slaps me across the face. It’s not tied back in a ponytail like the other girls’. It’s flying wild. The ball skips ahead of her, celebrating its rescue from Charlie’s clutches. All the other kids—whose thundering feet would have trampled my remains if Charlie had mowed me down—make a U-turn, following this new girl, as she dribbles the ball back toward the other team’s goal.

  Charlie gives me a vengeful look, then gets up and runs after the girl, but there’s no way he can catch her. She’s big—not fat, but tall and strong. And she’s fast—faster than the boys, faster than everybody.

  She’s down the field now and the only one with a chance to stop her is Billy Hayward. He’s small and wiry, and he’s stayed back to guard the goal. He sticks out his leg to steal the ball or trip her up, or both, but she gives him a nudge with her hip—the same nudge she must have given Charlie—and Billy is launched three feet in the air. It’s as if a tornado picks him up, twirls him around, and plunks him back down again.

  The boys stop in their tracks, staring. The girls glare at this new girl, because they like Billy, and they don’t want to see him tossed in the air like a Hacky Sack. Sally MacNamara, the goalie, is sending out vibes of mortal terror now that Billy, her last line of defense, is down. She doesn’t even take a step toward the ball as it flies into the net.

  It’s a goal, but nobody cheers.

  Coach De Salvo blows his whistle. “What’s everybody staring at?” he calls out. Nobody says anything, but the answer is obvious. Even I know they’re staring at the new girl, and if anybody’s not going to be clued in, it’s me. “Haven’t you ever seen a hip check before?”

  “It has a name?” mutters Billy.

  “Jeez,” adds his friend Zachary.

  “Young lady,” says Coach DeSalvo, “I hope you’ll be trying out for the girls’ soccer team.”

  “She belongs on the football team,” says Billy.

  “She belongs on the Godzilla team,” says Zachary, and all the boys laugh.

  The tall girl shrugs and looks at the ground. Her sandy-colored hair falls forward so I can’t see much of her face. It occurs to me that Coach DeSalvo could put a hand on her shoulder and introduce her, since she’s new and doesn’t know anybody, but he doesn’t. Instead, he blows his whistle again, points to the gym door, and tosses the ball to Charlie to carry in. And, I guess because he has to reestablish his rank in our seventh-grade world, Charlie calls my name and fakes a hard throw right at me. He doesn’t even have to let go of the ball. He just holds it over his head and jerks it forward, and I instinctively duck, triggering a wave of laughter.

  The crowd separates into boys and girls. The girls are whispering to each other, and the boys are crashing in through the back door, racing for the water fountain.

  Trailing the girls is the new girl. Trailing the boys is me.

  Chapter 2

  My mouth feels like a sandpit, but I don’t get in line at the gym water fountain. There are trade-offs you have to make in middle school, and sandpit mouth beats whatever Char
lie has in mind for me any day. Fortunately, someone knew enough to give us LD kids our own water fountain outside the Resource Room, my next-period class.

  LD stands for “learning differences.” It used to stand for “learning disabilities,” before they decided to make us sound a little less tragic. The Resource Room is where LD kids go to get organized, catch up, and not get yelled at so much.

  Everyone in the Resource Room has “issues,” or as my mother says, “stuff” that gets in the way. Mine is ADD—attention deficit disorder. ADD is a lot like ADHD, which might be even worse, because that “H” stands for “hyperactivity,” meaning you have way too much energy for your own good. My “H” isn’t really so bad, though, so I’m just ADD.

  People think having ADD means I can’t focus, but that’s not really true. I focus very well—just on the wrong things. Instead of hearing the assignment, I’m watching a ladybug crawl along the windowsill. When I’m supposed to be reading the chapter in our textbook called “Changes Down the Road: The Assembly Line,” I’m staring at the head-on picture of a Model T, thinking how it looks like my great-uncle Herman. Also, I flinch at loud sounds, can’t fit my writing between the lines, and hate the feel of scratchy wool, but I don’t know if that’s the ADD or something else altogether.

  For me, every day in middle school is a little bit like the Running of the Bulls. That’s something I saw on TV that happens in a place called Pamplona, in Spain. Once a year, they let a whole herd of bulls out free in the streets, and people try to outrun them, or else duck into a back alley to avoid being gored to death. That’s kind of how I feel. I try to keep up, or stay out of the way, or find someplace to hide.

  My back alley is the Resource Room. My teacher here is Mrs. T. Her real name is Mrs. Teitelbaum, but she likes “Mrs. T” better. She’s an upbeat person who dances down the “extra help hallway,” singing songs like “All the Single Ladies.” I know she’s married, though, because she has a picture of her husband on the wall by her desk, along with her two dogs, George and Ringo.

  Mrs. T likes polka dots and the color pink. Her hair is short and a little spiky and she has a habit of running her fingers through it. Sometimes she just forgets and her hand stays perched up there, making her look confused, or, when she wears pink, like an upside-down flamingo.

  After gym I take about ten gulps of water at the Resource Room fountain and come in to see Mrs. T in just that position. She’s holding the daily bulletin in one hand, with the other one on top of her head. She reads the bulletin out loud to us every day to make sure nothing important gets by us, and, trust me, it would.

  “Attention, journalists,” Mrs. T begins as I plop into my seat. “Come to a meeting on September fifteenth in Room D-1. Our monthly paper, The Inkwell, needs writers to report the news you want to know!”

  I try to imagine what The Inkwell would look like if it really did report the news kids wanted to know. The headline today would be TALL GIRL COMES TO LAKEVIEW! OUTPLAYS LOCAL BULLY!! It would tell where she came from and what her name was and how she knew that my life was in mortal danger at that very moment.

  Danielle Symington volunteers for The Inkwell, and Mrs. T says, “Excellent, Danielle,” takes her hand down from its perch on her head, and writes on the board in purple, “Danielle: Sept. 15—Inkwell meeting.”

  She goes on reading. “The Spanish Club will meet on Tuesday, September thirteenth, in Señora Finnegan’s room at three fifteen. No Spanish necessary.”

  “But it’s a Spanish club,” says Danielle, who seems way too together to be in the Resource Room. “How can there be no Spanish necessary?”

  “Maybe you’ll learn about Spain’s beautiful culture,” suggests Mrs. T. “Dancing, music . . .”

  “I speak Spanish,” says Trevor Holcombe, who’s sitting on a bookcase. “Taco, burrito, gordita . . .”

  “Nachos, chalupas, enchiladas,” adds Sanjit Chaudary, which sets off a flood of “fajitas” and “tamales” and “chimichangas,” and makes me think of the Running of the Bulls again.

  “Okay! Enough,” says Mrs. T, but she waits patiently until we’ve run down the entire list of Taco Bell menu items.

  “Moving on,” she says in a loud voice. “This is important. The renovation of our middle-school track is complete. Lakeview athletics will now include a seventh-grade track and cross country team. Let’s get Lakeview running! Come to a meeting after school tomorrow, Friday, September ninth, in Room D-5.”

  “Running isn’t a sport,” says Trevor. He’s swinging his heels and they bang the shelves of the bookcase with a thunk, thunk.

  “What do you mean, it’s not a sport?” says Mrs. T. “And get down off the bookcase, please, Trevor.”

  “I mean it’s not a real sport, like basketball or football,” says Trevor.

  “Like you’re the quarterback?” mutters Sanjit.

  “Running is stupid,” adds Trevor, just to make sure we all get it. He jumps off the bookcase, knocking a copy of Joey Pigza Swallowed the Key to the floor.

  “It certainly is not stupid!” says Mrs. T. “It would be great for all of you.” And then, for some completely crazy reason, she looks at me. “Joseph,” she says, “this is exactly the kind of thing that you should try.”

  “Me?” I say. “I’m terrible at sports.”

  “Don’t be negative, Joseph. You can run. I know you can.”

  “Yeah, away from the ball,” mutters Trevor.

  “I’m the slowest kid in the grade,” I say.

  Sanjit nods. “Really, Mrs. T. He’s not kidding.”

  “You don’t have to be fast,” says Mrs. T. “You start slow and get faster. Running is something you can do your whole life.”

  “But I can’t . . .” I start, but I know right away it’s a mistake. She stares me down.

  “We don’t say ‘can’t’ here, Joseph. We take things step by step and . . .”

  “We believe in ourselves,” I fill in halfheartedly, because it’s kind of Mrs. T’s motto.

  “So how about the rest of you? Who’ll go to the meeting?”

  Sanjit raises his hand. “I like to run. I’ll go.” Sanjit really likes Mrs. T and always tries to be agreeable.

  “Me, too,” says Erica Chen. I think she likes Sanjit a little bit.

  “Excellent!” says Mrs. T. She writes down Sanjit and Erica’s names. “Joseph?”

  “Go on, Joseph,” say Danielle and Trevor, in a way that I sense is not completely supportive, but I’m never really sure about things like that.

  I have no good excuse. It’s not like I take clarinet lessons or do judo or anything. Most of my afternoons are spent trying to do my homework and getting frustrated and distracted, or distracted and frustrated, depending on the day. Sometimes I watch nature shows, but I turn them off when something’s about to get killed.

  Also, I worry. I worry a lot.

  But Mrs. T is waiting for an answer. So even though running isn’t the first thing on my To Do list—like I even have a To Do list—I say okay. I’ll go to the meeting. And Mrs. T dances back over to the whiteboard and adds my name in red: “Joseph: Sept. 9—Track Meeting, Room D-5.”

  Chapter 3

  When I get home, I’m surprised to hear my parents’ voices coming from the kitchen. My dad is never home from work this early.

  “What do you mean, ‘in police custody’?” my mom is asking.

  “That’s all they said. They called and told me that he’s in police custody.”

  “He’s practically eighty years old, for heaven’s sake, on a trip with Sunshine Senior Living. What could he have done?”

  “I don’t know,” Dad says. “You know he can get ornery sometimes.”

  “Are you talking about Grandpa?” I ask.

  They both turn to stare at me. I guess I’ve got quiet feet, because they get this look like I’ve suddenly materialized in a puff of smoke. They look at each other, and my mom says, “Grandpa’s in Atlantic City.”

  “He got arrested?”
r />   “Well . . .” stalls Dad.

  “How did he get in trouble?” I ask. This is starting to sound really exciting.

  “I don’t know if he’s in trouble, exactly . . .” Dad says.

  “You said he’s in police custody, Matt,” says my mom. “He has to be in some sort of trouble.”

  “All I know is that the police picked him up and took him to the station.”

  “Are they holding him for questioning?” I ask. That’s what they do on TV—hold people for questioning.

  “I highly doubt that,” Mom says. “He didn’t rob a bank.”

  “At least, we don’t think so,” Dad mutters, giving me a wink.

  “Matt . . .” Mom says in her warning tone.

  “Are you going to spring him?” I ask. I’ve always wanted to spring someone from jail. I can see it now—the sleeping deputy, keychain dangling . . .

  “Nobody’s going to spring anybody,” says Mom. “It’s not like they have him locked up down there.”

  “Well, you know,” my dad says, “ ‘in police custody’ pretty much means . . .”

  “You mean they have him behind bars?” My mom is looking pale.

  “Of course not, sweetie. Can’t you tell when I’m joking?”

  I don’t always know when someone’s joking, but I thought my mom did.

  “Matt, we’ve got to bring him home.” Mom is going around the kitchen in fast motion, picking things up, stuffing them in drawers.

  “I’ll go down,” Dad says. “I’ll bring him back in the morning. You stay here with Joseph.”

  “Why can’t I come?” I protest, even though I know the answer.

  “Because it’s the first week of school. Your father can handle it,” Mom says, but she doesn’t look all that confident, especially since my father is now scrolling down his cell phone calendar and loosening his tie, which is what he does when he’s checking his sales appointments. My dad sells dental equipment. In fact, he’s such a good dental equipment salesman, he’s won an award called the Golden Crown three times.

  “Matt!” Mom says. “My father is in prison!”